


Exit the Dragon

by vast_difference



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Fashion & Couture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vast_difference/pseuds/vast_difference
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to her impending divorce from Wall Street tycoon Stephen and and the anticipated onslaught of bad press that could negatively affect her children, Miranda Priestly loses sight of her bottom line just long enough to be taken for a ride down the corporate ladder instead of up during Fall Fashion Week in Paris. Typically, Andy Sachs has difficulty resting on her laurels when witnessing such an injustice done to her formidable boss. Whose phone will end up in the fountain on La Place de la Concorde? Read on to find out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No One Mourns the Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story for DWP! I started it last month for Mirandy Week over on tumblr, and now I've finally gotten around to posting it on here. So... enjoy! Kudos and comments are much appreciated.

She walks brusquely through the streets of Paris, pulling her black Burberry wool coat tightly to herself. The chilling winds of autumn are no more forgiving across the Atlantic than they are in New York City, and she silently curses the necessity of the dark beret covering her head. Relinquishing a hand to secure the hat through a particularly strong gust, she comes to yet another intersection and absently looks up to check the sign: Avenue des Champs-Élysées. She should have known; like the well-known adage in ancient society that, “All roads lead to Rome,” the woman supposes that when a fashion-infused magazine like _Runway_ is your whole world, it makes sense for all roads to lead to Les Champs-Élysées instead.

She stops for a moment to catch her breath, which she hasn’t done since setting out an unknown blur of blocks beforehand when she rather hastily up and decided to walk away from her career. Somehow, she has managed to travel all the way up to La Place de Concorde and in 4 inch stiletto Louboutins, no less. The bite in the air stings her lungs, and suddenly she longs to fill them with the poisonous burn that will erase the cold and settle her mind. Looking around to get her bearings, she notices a little shop just down the way that will definitely sell cigarettes. She strides confidently inside and cordially enough asks the clerk in perfect French for a local blend that she recognizes from times past, as well as a small book of matches. The unfiltered tobacco to which she was once accustomed will most assuredly choke her now since she rarely smokes anymore, but in her current state she can hardly bring herself to care.

Choking, drowning, failing; different words for the same end game.

 _And that’s what this is, I suppose_ , she muses to herself as she exits the store after making her purchase. _My end game._ Across the way near the North fountain she notices a small café that she has frequented on several occasions. This one, blessedly, will throw a shot or two of Baileys into a café au lait for five or six extra Euros, and they have lovely pastries. Not that she partakes often; but if one is to partake in frivolous carbohydrates, France is certainly the place to do it. And when would she be in France again? _It’s impossible to know now_ , she thinks absently when she notices her cell phone ringing yet again from inside her favorite gold Prada purse. She does not need to check it; she already knows who it is. When would that silly girl take the hint and give up?

Almost immediately after it stops, the phone begins its incessant buzzing for what has to be at least the fifth time in the last half hour, and at this point she decides that she has indeed had enough attempted interference in her clean break. Clamoring haphazardly into the depths of her bag, Miranda Priestly pulls out her RAZR and throws it over her shoulder and into the ruining water of the Fountain of the Rivers on La Place de Concorde.

“Just try and find me now, Andrea,” she murmurs in a low, yet seething voice before finally passing through the doors of the café.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Andy frenetically paced the lobby outside of the room for the James Holt reception until mere minutes before it was to begin. Why did Miranda have to be so unfailingly pig-headed at the most inconvenient times? The purpose and result of her meeting with Irv Ravitz no doubt explained the uncharacteristic tardiness of Andy’s boss, but surely she wouldn’t skip out on the event entirely. Talk about uncharacteristic. Miranda lived for dramatic entrances and dramatic exits and pretty much all things dramatic in general when it came to public events; her brand of drama, though, always came across with just enough understatement to leave an air of mystery in her wake.

Right now, however, the only real mystery was Miranda’s current whereabouts. Since a watch would be a big no-no in the fashionista’s eyes with a formal Chanel dress, Andy had to pull out her Sidekick yet again to check the time. 11:54. The luncheon was scheduled to begin at noon on the nose, and Andy was just starting to hit the speed dial for Miranda’s phone for the umpteenth time when she felt a firm hand rest on her elbow.

“Jesus, Nigel!” Andy yelped, visibly startling. She hit the call button in spite of the interruption, holding her phone away from her ear to listen to the unanswered rings even as he kept talking.

“You know, it doesn’t matter how fast you pace, darling. Even if you do it in the shape of a pentagram and call the corners with Dior and Valentino and Chanel and Versace she’s not going to magically appear out of thin air,” the art director patronized with an air of sympathy.

“But where is she? In all the time I’ve been at _Runway_ , I’ve never seen her late to something like this… not even once. And God have mercy on the driver if she’s stuck in traffic. Oh God, Nigel… you don’t suppose she’s been in an accident? Maybe I should call…”

But Nigel finally broke in, “Six. Listen. You said that you interrupted her little pow-wow with Irv?” Andy nodded. “Even if she’d taken a moment and listened to you, I’m not sure it would have changed the outcome of the whole thing.” When Miranda had refused to bend her ear long enough for her perhaps stupidly loyal assistant to relay what she had learned about Irv and Jacqueline Follet’s coup in the wake of her tryst with Christian Thompson, Andy had high-tailed it straight to Nigel simply because she hadn’t known what else to do.

“This is probably Miranda’s misguided attempt at saving face,” Nigel continued. “After some of the icy interactions I’ve seen between her and Irv lately, I can’t say I’m all that surprised that he picked now to lower the boom… although I would have expected Miranda to be more intuitive. Usually she sees and hears all… something has her off her game. In the past, she’d have blocked a punch like that and had a knee to the other guy’s groin before he knew what hit him.”

Though Andy had divulged Christian and Jacqueline’s sordid business to Nigel before she had thought to stop herself, she had gotten control of her mouth before revealing Miranda’s mini-breakdown the night before. For months, Andy had withstood nothing but bullying, humiliation and chastisement at the hands of her formidable boss, though in recent weeks the two had seemed to reach some kind of bizarre mutual understanding. Up until the previous night, she thought she had been subjected to the fullest extents of Miranda Priestly’s temperament. Andy had been wrong.

In all the time she had known the imposing Editor-in-Chief, Andy had never anticipated the utterly human and vulnerable display she had witnessed from Miranda after she had received Stephen’s fax about the divorce. And the tears of raw emotion that she had bitterly shed when she lamented the onslaught of negative press that she was sure to endure as a result and its impact on her daughters… Andy Sachs had really and truly felt sorry for Miranda Priestly.

Nigel noticed Andy’s wounded, if slightly absent expression, and offered, “Look, you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty here. In this respect, and possibly also in the very literal sense now if your sources are correct, Miranda is not your problem.”

“I know,” Andy muttered, conceding enough to placate her well-meaning friend. She knew full well, though, that she would do everything she could to find Miranda as soon as she could excuse herself from the looming battleground of a soirée in the next room.

“Buck up, doll… don’t you want to help me soak up my moment in the sun?” Nigel asked mischievously as he finally managed to lead Andy into the dining room by the hand. In spite of herself, she gave him a warm smile. With the upset of Miranda’s disappearing act, Andy had nearly forgotten about Nigel’s big promotion to be the VP of James Holt’s new global brand.

Taking their seats at the Elias-Clarke table, Andy unfortunately found herself seated directly across from Irv Ravitz himself. It took all of her willpower not to jump over the perfectly set table and clobber him on the spot merely for her suspicions about Miranda’s absence. Before now Andy hadn’t thought much on why her instinct to defend or avenge Miranda was so entirely visceral, but she knew that now was not the appropriate time to dwell on it. _Later_.

Andy realized that she must have been looking at him with at least the hint of an odd expression, because he coughed uncomfortably and then nodded in a stilted greeting, “Miss Sachs.”

“Mr. Ravitz,” she returned with the bare minimum of required professionalism and the tightest smile she had in her repertoire.

Before any of the table’s occupants could engage in more substantial conversation, however, none other than Jacqueline Follet breezed her way over to the table and stood next to Irv.

“Bonjour, Irv... so lovely to see you,” she all but purred as Irv stood to exchange a social side-kiss with the _Runway France_ editor.

“Jacqueline, always a pleasure,” he responded with predictable smarm.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Jacqueline began sweetly, “that our dear Miranda has not arrived yet, and she’s due to begin the luncheon and introduce James any minute now. Have you had any word about her?”

“No, it is very strange that she isn’t here yet. She’s usually so punctual… any idea on her ETA, Andy?” Irv inquired, turning his gaze on her.

Andy could hardly believe his gall; if what she had learned was correct, Irv knew damn well why Miranda wasn’t there. And the sad truth of it was Andy doubted that anyone would say anything nasty behind Irv Ravitz’s back for his business practices. He would be a “good businessman,” and Miranda Priestly would be “a bitch.” _Fuck double standards_ , she thought to herself.

“No, Mr. Ravitz. I haven’t seen or heard from her since this morning when the two of you were speaking,” Andy ventured boldly.

“Six…” Nigel warned under his breath.

But Irv merely smiled at her insincerely and turned back to Jacqueline. “Well, then I don’t see how we have any other choice than to begin without her. Why don’t you go ahead and do the honors, my dear? In fact it’ll make a great segue for our little announcement later on.” _Well, there it is, then_ , Andy thought to herself. Jacqueline introducing James would set up their “little announcement.” Apparently, it really was a done deal.

“Bien sûr, chérie. I’d be most honored,” replied Jacqueline, who smiled her approval and wasted no time in making her way up to the podium at the front of the hall.

“Bienvenue, Mesdames et Messieurs… how lovely it is to see all of you here in our lovely Paris for Fall Fashion Week. I am Jacqueline Follet, the Editor-in-Chief of _Runway France_ and I am so happy…”

But Andy zoned out straightaway after Jacqueline had begun her flowery introductions, noting nothing in particular other than how harshly the French woman’s bubbly tones contrasted with Miranda’s more refined subtlety. Andy’s eyes wandered around the room absently, and quite by accident she found the cool, blue gaze of Christian Thompson fixed back upon her. A knowing smirk graced his lips, and he tipped his head to her by way of a condescending greeting. Andy merely sneered as his presumption as best she could and instead found a potted plant nearby that was much more deserving of her visual attentions.

Her mind immediately wandered back to the woman whose chair was so glaringly empty at the Elias-Clarke table, and the assistant never thought she would have seen the day when she openly admitted, for all practical purposes, that she missed something about Miranda Priestly. But the woman had grown on Andy in the last month or so, in spite of the difficulties that working for her entailed. While she undoubtedly didn’t agree with everything that Miranda did and said, the confidence and dedication with which her boss ran _Runway_ had earned, at the very least, Andy’s respect.

She was brought out of her temporary reverie when Nigel suddenly elbowed her to get her attention, and with good reason. Andy’s ears perked up again just in time to hear Jacqueline Follet introduce him.

“And of course to assist James in this marvelous endeavor with Mossimo Cortiliogne, they will be bringing in Nigel Kipling, the supremely talented veteran art director for American _Runway_ , as the Vice President of Operations for James Holt International.”

Nigel flashed an enthusiastic grin as his name was announced, turning around in his chair to nod and wave genteelly to the room as a whole in acknowledgement.

“ ‘Veteran.’ She just had to get that dig in,” Nigel murmured to Andy through now gritted teeth.

Andy gave Nigel a tolerant smile and shook her head, allowing herself just a moment’s reprieve from her anger to congratulate the success of the first real friend she had made at _Runway_. Before the applause had died down, though, Irv Ravitz had risen from the Elias-Clarke table and started toward the podium where Jacqueline stood. Andy frowned; she knew what was coming next, and she also knew that she had no desire to be present for it.

Grabbing her clutch and vacating her seat as inconspicuously as possible, Andy met Nigel’s knit eyebrows with a friendly peck on the cheek and a murmured promise to call him later. Moments later, Miranda Priestly’s most trusted assistant was rushing back toward the hotel in much the same way that she had come from it not an hour before. Her couture was certainly ideal for the glitz and glamor of Fall Fashion Week, but neither Andy’s dress nor her shoes would serve her effectively in her newly self-assigned task: Operation Find the Dragon Lady.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After purchasing not one, but _two_ , chocolate croissants, a very large café au lait with a shot of espresso and not one, but _two_ shots of Baileys, Miranda Priestly had exited the tiny pâtisserie and found herself a nearby table on the north end of La Place de Concorde. It would be a chilly day to sit outside for very long… Miranda guessed it was in the low 40’s… but she hoped that the searing coffee and a lit cigarette would bring sufficient physical warmth, anyway.

Before diving into her croissants, which looked positively divine, she fished both the cigarettes and the book of matches from her bag. In no time, Miranda was deeply inhaling her first drag in ages, and just as she had expected nearly coughed up a lung on the wrought iron table before her insides acclimated to the non-filtered blend. Once they did, however, a calming sensation washed over her that was almost unsettling in itself because it was so foreign. Well, foreign for as long as she could remember, anyway.

Drag, sip. Drag, sip. Sip, drag. Miranda went back and forth between her coffee and her cigarette for a good five minutes, savoring the mingling flavors and eliciting a masochistic satisfaction from indulging in things that were bad for her. And speaking of things that were bad for her, she put out the tiny remainder of her cigarette underneath a stiletto and used the provided knife and fork to tear into the first of the chocolate croissants. And, _oooohhhh_. Heaven. Delectable. Miranda’s eyes lulled back into her head and she fairly moaned with pleasure. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself such a sweet treat, and goddammit if she wasn’t going to enjoy every single morsel.

It certainly wouldn’t kill her to gain a pound or two now. Or would it? Who knew, really. Currently, Miranda wasn’t thinking much past the next few minutes; entertaining anything beyond the immediate future felt staggering and suffocating. Although when she had walked away from the hotel after Irv’s bombshell, it had also been from a sense of feeling smothered. So here sat Miranda Priestly, the woman who insisted on scheduling every last second of every day of her life, finding herself utterly paralyzed by the prospect of either going back or going forward. She was living in the present moment, just sitting and drinking and smoking and eating like most of the other 6 billion people in the world did every day.

Was this how it felt to be a _normal_ person? Moving slowly enough to recognize the weight of moments while you were in them? Miranda had no earthly idea. The editor had spent the better part of the last thirty years avoiding _normal_ like the plague. She dropped her knife and fork back on the small plate with a satisfying thunk when she finished the first of the two croissants and wasted no time in pulling a second cigarette out of the pack. As Miranda took the first few drags of the new one, she finally felt the buzz of the potent tobacco mingle with the shots of alcohol in her café au lait. For the first time since very early that morning, her skin stopped crawling. Ironically, the cigarettes were contributing to the first real deep breaths that Miranda had been able to take in hours.

Since the now former Editor-in-Chief of American _Runway_ was still hardly ready to accept or concede the fate of her career, she decided that the only sensible thing to do was to continue to distract herself until she could face the facts well enough to formulate her next steps. Sighing in resignation, Miranda grabbed for her bag and furtively pulled out the same extra bound copy of Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows that Andréa, with her smug reverence, had presented to her all those weeks ago; the same one that she had been reading little by little for weeks behind The Book and other magazines when she had a few spare minutes to keep up with the twins’ latest interest.

Andréa. Briefly, Miranda wondered what would happen to the girl now that she was gone. Her second-almost-turned-first assistant was intelligent, to be sure, if still a bit backward in certain social graces and wet behind the ears in the ways of fashion. She would find another position, of course, be it at _Runway_ or somewhere else.

One thing was for sure; wherever Andréa wanted to go, Miranda would give her an impeccable reference if the opportunity presented itself. Hopefully her name would still carry enough clout to do that much good, at least. She shook her head at that last professionally morbid thought and thumbed through Harry Potter until she found the page where she had left off on the plane. Because she so desperately sought escape, it was easy enough to maintain the coffee-cigarette rotation and lose herself in the world of Death Eaters and Horcruxes and swords and Goblins and the Elder Wand until further notice.


	2. Disarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So don't ever listen to me when I say, "Oh, I'll have the next chapter up on ________." Because either life gets super hellish, or I decide I need to add half a page or rework the whole first section of my chapter. I should really just say, "It'll be up when it's up."

Now armed with sensibly two-inch heeled Jimmy Choo brown leather boots and skinny jeans, Andy Sachs headed out onto the streets of Paris after making a few inquiries about Miranda in the lobby of Hotel Plaza Athénée and with the doormen and valets. For once, the maybe-still-assistant was grateful for her boss’s outlandish presence, because she had in fact been noticed exiting the building and heading northeast on L’Avenue Montaigne about an hour beforehand. So toward L’Avenue des Champs-Élysées Andy headed, walking on the right side of the street to start. When she noticed first the Ferragamo and then the Fendi store on the left side, however, she crossed at the first safe opportunity.

Looking carefully through the shops’ windows, Andy hoped that luck would be on her side and she would catch a glimpse of a casually browsing Miranda, scrutinizing the latest in shoes and bags that they had to offer. But Andy didn’t see her and decided that it was best to keep moving; Miranda could wander even farther if Andy dawdled too long asking questions. Besides, Andy couldn’t imagine anyone being in the mood to shop after a trying ordeal like Miranda had all too recently experienced at the hands of the ruthless Irv; but bearing in mind that it _was_ Miranda, assumptions of any kind were best kept at bay.

Trudging onward, Andy carefully scanned any sidewalk cafés that she passed, as well, for a signature white bob. When she reached the intersection of Les Champs-Élysées, though, Andy needed to make a quick decision. Which way? To the left sat many more shops and restaurants and also the impressive Cinéma Gaumont. _Would Miranda go to a movie at a time like this? Does she even like movies?_ Andy wondered. There was no way to be sure, but Andy doubted it. Straining her eyes to see the opposite direction, Andy could make out the fountains of La Place de la Concorde in the east. For some reason, that seemed like a much more plausible option for the capricious editor.

As Andy walked the half a mile or so to the square, she realized that they had driven around it a few times in the car throughout the week, not to mention that Andy had seen it in at least half a dozen movies. _She could be there_ , Andy thought to herself. She looked around at the smattering of small cafes and restaurants as she walked through the park-like thoroughfare that led up to the famous Obélisque de Louxor. More of them were situated sparingly near the fountains themselves.

After thoroughly searching the clientele outside all of the various restaurants near the South Fountain, Andy ventured more toward the North Fountain and kept right on looking. Though no one liked to make a public splash better than an “on” La Priestly, Andy sensed that Miranda was currently attempting to do precisely the opposite. She probably wanted to blend in. And where better to blend in than one of the most popular tourist attractions in Paris?

When her stomach growled loudly and broke her concentration, Andy glanced down at her watch, which she had thankfully thought to grab at the hotel when she did the quickest clothing change of her life. Time had certainly passed quickly; she had been hunting for Miranda for the better part of an hour and had missed the fancy-pants lunch at the reception, to boot. Across the way, Andy noticed a pâtisserie sign. Although she had passed several of them on her strange, self-imposed quest, she had resisted stopping thus far in the interest of time. The hunger pangs weren’t quieting, however, and could no longer be ignored.

As Andy eagerly made her way toward the establishment, her eyes were involuntarily drawn to a shock of white hair under a snuggly placed black beret that belonged to a woman sitting at one of the nearby tables. She stopped in her tracks and further assessed the person before her; Prada sunglasses, pale skin, an up-to-the-moment black Burberry coat that was impeccably matched to the beret, and a mouth drawn in a hard, thin line. Lips that weren’t pursed but without a doubt belonged to the one and only Miranda Priestly. Andy placed a thankful hand to her heart and blew out a sigh of relief. The warm puff of air threatened to become visible in temperatures that weren’t quite frigid but were clearly dropping as the afternoon wore on.

Miranda was probably cold, but she was dressed warmly enough that the chill in the air would be tolerable to her. Andy noticed a large cup of coffee sitting on the table, and… what was that, sitting on a plate? _A pastry?_ Miranda Priestly, eating alone, had purchased dessert. _Oh, this is definitely not a good sign_ , Andy thought to herself. Also Miranda appeared to be reading, and it wasn’t The Book, either. Andy squinted: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. _Oh, wow._ Reading a YA novel. _The YA novel that I committed illegal acts to obtain for her children._ The spell of almost hypnotic observation broke when Miranda moved her left hand to turn a page, at which point Andy could see that it held a lit cigarette. _Smoking?!_ Andy had _never_ seen Miranda smoke. Not once.

If Andy had really and truly believed in aliens, she would have sworn on a stack of _Runways_ that Miranda had been kidnapped and replaced by some kind of pod person. Now that she had found her not-quite-boss-anymore, Andy wasn’t entirely sure what her next step should be. In a typical situation, one did not merely invite oneself to sit down at a table with La Priestly. Typical had pretty much gone to hell already that day, though, so Andy took a cleansing breath and approached Miranda’s table. When Andy sat down, the other woman seemed to be quite deeply engrossed in her reading and showed no signs of noticing her at first.

The seconds ticked by, and she moved to pick up her coffee. Without looking up from her book, Miranda finally bristled, “Am I sending out some kind of fat ex-assistant homing signal of which I am unaware?”

“Well, you must be… I’m here, aren’t I?” Andy returned without missing a beat.

At her presumption, Miranda put down Harry Potter with an inelegant slam and turned up the lenses of the Prada sunglasses that the cloudy skies had rendered unnecessary to meet sincere brown eyes. Andy got the distinct impression that Miranda was about to lay into her when she opened her mouth wide and stiffly set her shoulders in anticipatory retort. But after she had drawn the breath to do it, her ex-boss deflated at the last second and rummaged around in her purse until she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Miranda used what little was left of the old one to light a new one and stomped the finished bud under a pump.

She inhaled deeply and exhaled with a noticeable shiver, crossing her arms on the defensive as if they could keep the world out. “Why are you here?”

“I... I was worried about you, Miranda.”

“ _Worried_? About me? I assure you, Andréa,” she sneered, “I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

“I know that,” said Andy lamely, although she didn’t, really. In all the time she had worked for Miranda, she had rarely seen the editor do anything _for_ herself.

“Do you?” Miranda snorted, courteous enough at least to blow her smoke out to the side. “You’ve hardly seen me do anything of the kind since you’ve been in my employ. Isn’t that what you were thinking?” Dumbfounded, all Andy could do was nod. “Well, contrary to the rumors, I did not come out of the womb with a string of assistants.”

At that, Andy laughed automatically before she could control it. Miranda, halfway to picking up her coffee, stopped dead and sent her what the younger woman had to assume was a blistering glare from behind the glasses. Trying in vain to cover it with a cough, Andy muttered, “Sorry.”

“And now you’re apologizing for _my_ twisted sense of humor. Just like all of the other lackeys. Really, I thought better of you, Andréa… I thought you were past that initial phase of cowering in my presence. Which is formidable, really… I believe I’ve only had two or three assistants during my tenure at _Runway_ that ever reached that plane of nirvana.”

Andy smirked this time and made it a point to hold eye contact with her former boss so that she would understand that she wasn’t backing down. Well, this was certainly unexpected. Here was Miranda, talking to Andy in a manner that sort of resembled regular conversation, or as close to regular conversation as Miranda could probably handle, at least.

“So you’ve come to ‘look after me’ then, have you? Well, since you’re here, you can start by getting me another coffee, if you please. This one’s gone tepid, I can hardly stand it anymore,” Miranda declared breezily, going back into her purse and retrieving her pocket book. “Here.” She handed Andy a handful of Euros and tried to sound casual when she added, “Be sure to get something for yourself, as well.”

Stunned by the gesture, Andy’s eyes went wide, but she recovered enough to say, “That’s… _nice_ of you, Miranda,” and she tasted the absurdity of that combination of words before they had left her mouth. “But I _do_ have my own money. I don’t expect you to buy me anything.”

Miranda sighed audibly and finally condescended to remove her sunglasses, fixing her now exposed eyes directly on Andy. They looked tired, but as flinty and focused as ever. “Since it’s barely 1:30 and you’re here, I would say it is safe to assume that you left the luncheon before the food was served, correct?”

“Yeah… I only stayed long enough for Nigel’s new position to be announced. I didn’t want to be around for the rest of it.” Though Miranda said nothing to acknowledge the information, Andy was pretty sure she understood the implication well enough.

“Well, then you must be hungry. And I’ve no doubt you made quite the _Norma Rae_ statement leaving the way you did, so I wouldn’t bank on the fact that you’re still an employee of Elias-Clarke.” Andy’s jaw dropped. “So if someone’s offering to buy you lunch, I suggest you accept it with grace and count your blessings. I recommend their croque-monsieur, it’s quite outstanding.”

“Ok then,” Andy breathed. Trying to adjust to the Twilight Zone that her life had become in the last few hours, she asked absently before going into the café, “The usual coffee?”

“Yes,” she heard Miranda answer stiffly, but then she murmured an additional instruction to Andy that wasn’t quite intelligible.

“What was that?” her former assistant dared.

“Baileys. One shot,” Miranda repeated in barely audible tones, then picked up her book and took another drag of her cigarette. It was then that Andy noticed the small pile of four or five of them that had accumulated on the ground. Drinking alcohol in her coffee, alone, in the middle of the day, eating dessert, and chain-smoking. When she had come looking for Miranda she knew that she should truly be prepared for anything, but Andy recognized as she waited in line and tried to remember enough French from high school not to embarrass herself that her life was about to achieve a whole new level of crazy.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After using a somewhat embarrassing combination of French and English to obtain Miranda’s spiked coffee, as well as a croque-monsieur and a non-spiked coffee for herself, Andy went back outside to join Miranda at the table. She was still reading her book, so Andy set the coffee and her ex-boss’s change down near her and then took her own seat. Miranda made no move to stop reading or otherwise engage with her, so the former assistant did what she usually did best in the editor’s presence and tried to melt into the background and eat her lunch.

After a few minutes of looking around the square and taking in the beautiful scenery, which Andy had been given little time for in Paris until now, she glanced back over at Miranda and noticed that she was eyeing the very croque-monsieur that she had recommended.

Andy knew that look. “Would you like me to get you one, too?” she asked after she swallowed.

“No.” Miranda fidgeted and turned back to her book.

“Okay…” Andy began, but knew what it meant when Miranda eyed something like that, be it a dress, accessory, piece of furniture, or culinary temptation. It was a particular look of coveting. Andy wondered if Miranda would be more amenable to eating if she could loosen up a little bit. It was a long shot, but she didn’t really have anything to lose.

“So… how many Horcruxes have they found so far?” Andy ventured casually before taking another bite of her food.

Miranda finally looked at her. “How could you possibly know…” she began to ask, but then a knowing expression crossed her features when a smile played at Andy’s lips. “You think you’re marvelously clever, don’t you? Keeping one for yourself. Copyright infringement is dangerous business, Andréa.”

Eyes wide, she stammered, “But… you _asked_ me to get the book for you…”

“No, I merely relayed the information that the twins wanted to know what happened next, and then I informed you that if you _didn’t_ locate the manuscript that you needn’t bother returning to _Runway_. You drew your own conclusions.” Andy continued to gape, and now it was Miranda’s turn to smirk. The editor took another sip of her coffee and flipped a page in her book while Andy stewed. _Cool as a cucumber, even when her life is coming apart at the seams_. Restrained bravado notwithstanding, Andy doubted Miranda would ever have turned her in; however, Andy was completely sure that Miranda gained immense pleasure from the idea that her former assistant _thought_ she might.

“You’re pretty evil, you know that?” Andy declared eventually, grinning in spite of herself.

“So they say,” Miranda shrugged, finishing her latest cigarette and putting it out under her heel yet again. This time she didn’t reach for another one.

“So do you think you would have been sorted into Slytherin?” Andy wondered aloud while she took another bite of the signature French sandwich. She was choosing to ignore Miranda’s attempts at ignoring her. At that Miranda sighed, not angry if a bit annoyed, and set “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” down on the table, more gently this time. She crossed her arms again, but now it seemed more for pretentious effect than a tactic of self-preservation.

“You sound remarkably like my girls,” Miranda observed pointedly. “When they got to book five, they made it their mission in life to psychoanalyze everyone they knew into the appropriate Hogwarts house.” Andy chanced a laugh. “Me, their father, Stephen, Roy, Cara, their teachers, their swim instructor… and even poor Patricia. They now insist that she may really be an Animagus.” Andy should have known better than to attempt a sip of coffee while Miranda was talking, because now she was in imminent danger of spitting it out all over the table while trying to control her giggles. “Oh, and if she is, then apparently she’s in Hufflepuff,” Miranda deadpanned, taking another sip of her own coffee.

Andy reined in her giddiness at Miranda’s uncharacteristic candor about her personal life long enough to comment, “That does make sense actually.” Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Well, you know… Patricia’s appearance is kind of misleading. She’s this huge, intimidating dog with a really loud bark, but she’s nothing but a cuddly teddy bear once you get to know her.”

“When were you ever…”

“You had me pick her up from the groomer’s and drop her off at the townhouse that one time, remember?” Miranda nodded noncommittally. “She kind of freaked me out at first, dragging me all over the place on that God-forsaken thin little leash. But once I got her settled at your house, she slobbered me with so many kisses that I had to stop past my apartment to change my blouse.”

“Yes, well… the breeder actually tried to talk her up as a potential guard dog, if you can imagine.”

“Seriously?”

“She surely did. Although, that is…” Miranda struggled, clearly unused to discussing the minutia of her daily life. But Andy’s open demeanor seemed to unwittingly draw Miranda out of her carefully constructed and mysterious shell. “Really, Patricia was a present for Cassidy and Caroline. They had begged and begged for a puppy for almost a year, and when their father and I were getting divorced I just couldn’t bring myself to let their birthday pass without acquiescing.”

“Huh. I’d wondered about that… you don’t really strike me as a dog person, to be honest.”

Now Miranda looked surprised at Andy’s unsolicited commentary on a personal matter, which under normal circumstances was a big no-no with La Priestly. Andy got the distinct impression, though, that it was not currently La Priestly with whom she was having a chat, but _Miranda_. And Miranda was allowing it. The novelty of their current social situation seemed to dawn on the fashion maven simultaneously when it did on Andy, and they regarded each other carefully for a few fleeting moments. She almost felt as if she should apologize, but Miranda hesitated and then picked up the conversation from its hiccup.

Looking a bit uneasy, she said, “I’m not, as a rule.” Now she did reach into her purse to retrieve another cigarette. Andy was becoming concerned about the large number that Miranda had gone through in such a short period of time, but she didn’t dare to say anything about that. Talking about dogs and Harry Potter was one thing; scolding Miranda for one of her vices was something else entirely.

“Any animals you do like?”

“What is this, Andréa, twenty questions? Honestly,” Miranda said haughtily. Apparently emotional discomfort manifested into a need for motion, so she reached for the book of matches and lit what had to be at least her fifth cigarette that afternoon. Though it was true she had never seen Miranda smoke before that day, Andy was beginning to see why the habit fit the kinetic tendencies of her former boss so readily.

“It’s a conversation, Miranda. I say something, you say something. Someone might crack a joke; someone might ask a question here or there. A little out of practice?” Andy didn’t know the source of her boldness, but she did know that she couldn’t retreat from it at this stage of the game. This kind of leap into the dragon’s lair wasn’t one from which a person could return from easily, or unscathed. In just a few short hours, Andy had been thrust all in; but into _what_ , specifically, she had no idea.

Resigning herself to the situation, Miranda conceded to Andy’s original question while disregarding the second, more rhetorical one. “Cats,” she said. “I like cats.”

Andy smiled. “Me too. I mean, I like dogs, but cats have always been my favorite. I admire their independence.”

Miranda gave a curt nod. “Indeed.” She paused, looked even more uncomfortable, but eventually asked Andy, “Have you ever owned one?” Andy could hardly believe it; Miranda Priestly had just asked her a personal question that could in no way be construed as work-related.

“Um. Yeah… Franklin. We got him when I was in kindergarten… big, orange tabby. He loved _everybody_.”

Miranda seemed amused. “Franklin, really. That’s an… unusual name for a cat. Did you choose it?”

“I did. We had just learned all about Benjamin Franklin at school, and I was hooked. My parents thought it was an unusual choice too, but he was my cat, so I got to pick the name. They didn’t say anything when my older brother named his lizard Axel Rose.”

“Kindergarten, you say?” Miranda looked thoughtful. “He probably isn’t still living, then.”

“No, he passed away when I was at Northwestern. I went home when they had to put him down though… it sucked, it was only a few months before graduation,” Andy remembered. “I still miss sometimes… Franklin could smell a bad day or a bad mood a mile off. He’d come curl up on my lap and purr, and I’d just pet him for hours.”

“They’re affectionate animals when they deign to be, that’s true. But it’s certainly on their terms.”

“For sure,” Andy agreed, and then gambled, “So… did you ever have a cat?”

Miranda took another drag and allowed, “If you must know, I _have_ one, present tense. A white Himalayan… I’ve had her since before the twins were born.”

“Oh. What’s her name, if you don’t mind my asking?” Miranda murmured something, but Andy couldn’t make it out. “What was that?”

“ _Jezebel,”_ Miranda repeated, annoyed. Andy tried to stifle a snicker and failed. “And _that_ is exactly why I don’t like to tell people her name, or even discuss her. On the rare occasions that I have dared, someone always finds it too hilarious that The Dragon Lady’s exotic, white-haired cat is named Jezebel.”

“I’m sorry, Miranda… I really didn’t mean to laugh,” Andy apologized. Now she felt bad. “It’s a cool name. I think I laughed because I was surprised… with a dog named Patricia, I guess I just would have expected something different.” _More regal_ … _or pretentious,_ Andy thought to herself. _Anastasia? Katarina? Blanche?_ But Jezebel was a surprise; it was… _daring._

“Well, as your parents allowed you to name your pet, the girls chose Patricia’s name all on their own,” Miranda sniffed.

“Oh. Well that makes sense, I suppose,” Andy conceded. “So why Jezebel?” Andy was sure Miranda had probably pulled a retina with the exaggerated eyeroll that followed. “Hey, I explained Franklin without complaining, didn’t I?”

The editor sighed. “So you did. If you must know, I’ve always been particularly fond of Bette Davis, and ‘Jezebel’ is among my favorite of her films. It was either going to be Jezebel or Regina, and I was of the opinion that the latter would be more likely to draw unfavorable comparisons,” she snorted, “From the few who would understand the reference, anyway.” Andy sensed the bait, but she was in a biting mood.

“I can see why you would be a little sensitive about parallels with Regina Giddens,” Andy shrugged, taking a deep drink of her coffee.

Miranda cocked her head to one side and let out a stilted chuckle. “Well played, Andréa.”

Andy smiled at the veiled compliment. They maintained eye contact briefly, but the implied familiarity brought Miranda to a squirm in no time. Noticing that her former boss’s eyes had once more wandered to the half of the croque-monsieur that was still untouched, Andy decided to attempt another offer.

“You know, I’m getting pretty full… I’m not sure I can finish the rest of this. I’d hate to let such a culinary triumph to go to waste.”

“No, I don’t suppose we can. Let it, that is. The chefs in this country get so very insulted if all the food is not eaten,” Miranda agreed, and waved her hand to indicate that she wanted Andy to push the plate over to her side of the table. Eying Andy somewhat suspiciously, she added, “I know you said that you were full, but you’re certainly welcome to half of my pastry if you would like.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. You haven’t had any yet…”

“On the contrary, _that_ is my second one. Help yourself.”

Miranda Priestly had ordered _two_ pastries for herself. She had, to a degree willingly, discussed Harry Potter, her daughters, her dog, and her seldom-mentioned cat with Andy, her former assistant, after effectively being fired from _Runway_ only hours beforehand. The levels of strange on La Place de la Concorde only continued to climb on that crisp fall day, and Andy had a feeling that the apex was not yet in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all seriousness, though, I have chapter 3 mostly finished. I'm seeing more of the story fleshed out in my head... it's mostly just a matter of translating from brain to page. I'm also working on an original novel (sporadically lately because Mirandy is distracting) and a non-fiction piece about the gender gap in film. I have really bad ADD when I write sometimes. (Squirrel!)


	3. Stick With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone was wondering, which I doubt, I name my chapters after songs from my Mirandy playlist that seem apt to the chapter. Because I'm a giant nerd.
> 
> Also, there is some French in this chapter. I'm including a translation at the end for those who do not speak French.

Andy and Miranda ate their exchanged food in silence for a while, each attempting furtive glances at the other in the process. Though Andy surely felt unnerved by spending time with her now former boss that wasn’t dictated to the last second by a schedule, she couldn’t imagine how disconcerted Miranda must have been feeling. As a rule, she was a ball of raw, nervous energy and seemed to thrive on the constancy of her rigid calendar to channel her tremendous life-force.

Finally, when Andy was nearly finished with her delicious half of Miranda’s chocolate pastry, she chanced, “So… any ideas about what you’d like to do when you finish eating?”

When Andy raised her eyes to assess the other woman’s reaction, however, she noticed that Miranda had surreptitiously replaced her sunglasses and appeared to be sending her a glare from behind them.

“Not that you need to decide right now, or anything…” Andy started to ramble under the scrutiny, “I mean, obviously… you can do whatever you…”

“One of Galliano’s assistant designers is standing outside of that shop across the street, and I think he’s spotted me,” Miranda interrupted, and Andy quickly realized that her former boss had been looking beyond her, not at her. “Oh for Christ’s sake, he’s coming over here now. Listen to me carefully, Andréa… go along with whatever I say. Do not contribute to the conversation unless he addresses you directly. If he does, then do your best to smile vacantly and keep your responses as bland as possible,” she instructed. “I expect that last bit will likely take some acting on your part,” Miranda intoned with snark, but Andy could tell by the twist of her mouth that it was meant as a backhanded compliment.

“Miranda, _cara_!” a tall, thin, bald gentlemen with stylish glasses dressed in all black exclaimed as he approached their table in what Andy could only guess was heavily accented Italian.

“Giovanni, of all the luck,” responded Miranda breezily. As he bent down to greet her, they shared the superficial air-kisses that were socially standard among their set.

“I can hardly believe you have such time to sit and _fare colazione_ with this young lady during this week of insanity for all of us!” He fixed a curious glance on Andy, as if he was assessing her relevance. Being the ever-dutiful secretively ex-assistant, she did exactly as her recently ex-boss had asked her and plastered on the most insipid smile she could manage.

“You realize, even _I_ must make time for sustenance, darling, or I would be dead on my feet with the pace we’ve been keeping,” Miranda explained, which Andy found strange. The editor rarely explained herself to anyone. To a casual acquaintance, her demeanor likely seemed casual enough, but Andy could tell that Miranda’s strategic sensibilities had honed in on Giovanni’s pointed glance in the younger woman’s direction. Apparently Miranda had decided on a preemptive strike, because in the next breath the two were being introduced. “Andréa Sachs, this is Giovanni Greco, first assistant designer to Galliano. Andréa is _my_ first assistant.”

_1 st assistant? _Andy gulped. _It looks like I’ve received a pseudo-promotion in my now non-existent job._

Taking Andy’s hand, Giovanni seemed to relax his critique and gushed, “Oh, this is _the_ Andréa? _Cara_ , we’ve spoken on the telephone a few times, I believe. And Señor Galliano has told me of you, of course. Ah, _che bella_ , I adore your scarf!” He audaciously fingered the silky, red material resting around Andy’s neck. “Is it Hermes?”

“Um… yes, it is. Thank you. And… he _has_?” Andy wondered incredulously. Miranda cleared her throat and busied herself with a long sip of coffee.

“Well yes, my dear… it isn’t every day that Miranda speaks so highly of an assistant as she does of you. You are quite the novelty!”

“Oh really, Giovanni.” The editor waved a dismissive hand.

“Don’t worry Miranda, it is not I who will ruin your reputation as a _strega_. Who would believe me, anyhow?”

Miranda actually cracked a smile, a rare occurrence in itself unless her children or a unique triumph of couture weren’t directly involved. _She must really like Giovanni_ , Andy mused.

Slowly standing, Miranda placed a light hand on his elbow and purred, “Well it was lovely running into you _Caro_ , but we really must dash.” Andy quickly stood as well in preparation of Miranda’s next whim and waited.

“Oh yes, I can’t even imagine your itinerary. Will I see you at the Dior show in a few hours?”

“Yes, of course.” Giovanni took her hand and kissed it. “Until later then,” Miranda said as he moved to kiss Andy’s hand in turn.

“It was very nice to meet you, Giovanni,” Andy offered.

“And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you later, as well, yes? We will have to have a long chat about our tyrannical masters,” he laughed, and Andy did, as well. It was a pity she wouldn’t be seeing him later… Andy was starting to see how Giovanni had succeeded in winning over Miranda. He _definitely_ wasn’t afraid of her.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t give the girl any ideas,” scolded Miranda insincerely.

“Ciao, darlings!” he said by way of seeing himself off, and just as quickly as Miranda had noticed him, the crowd on La Place de la Concord absorbed Giovanni Greco as if the strangeness of the last 5 minutes hadn’t transpired

“He didn’t know,” Andy blurted before she thought better of it as soon as she was sure Giovanni was out of hearing range.

Miranda arched an eyebrow but agreed. “No,” she exhaled in relief. The unspoken factor of borrowed time lurked in the air. “Thank goodness for small favors. Now…” she began, taking a breath and turning to look Andy directly in the eye. “I need to ask you a serious question. To what lengths are you willing to go to help me?”

“Whatever you need,” she gave as an automatic response.

“You are aware that you are no longer obligated in any way to do so,” Miranda reminded her sharply.

“Yes,” Andy answered weakly. “But… I want to.”

Up went the eyebrow again, and Andy was pretty sure that a “why” was burning inside the ever-moving gears of Miranda’s mind. But for reasons unknown, she was keeping it to herself for the time being.

Miranda gave a curt nod and continued. “Well then, there’s only one matter left to determine… do you wish to accompany me or return home to the states?”

“Where are you going?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not in the sense that I care where I go, exactly… but since I seem to be recently unemployed, my funds are…”

“Don’t be silly, Andréa. _I_ am inviting _you_ to accompany me someplace. Particularly in light of recent events, I would insist on paying your way.”

“Oh,” Andy said dumbly, not quite knowing what to make of Miranda’s proposition. “Do you _want_ me to come with you?”

“You offered, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” Andy honestly couldn’t remember, and the conversation couldn’t have been transpiring for more than about thirty seconds.

“You said that you would help me in any way that you can.”

“I did…”

“Well?”

Somehow, through her daze, Andy finally got the message. She had offered to assist Miranda, and Miranda clearly wanted her help. Either Miranda didn’t want to be alone, or she specifically wanted Andy to accompany her on her… journey, or possibly some combination of the two. In any event, Miranda was clearly not ready to _admit_ that she wanted or needed anyone’s company or help. Typical.

“Of course, Miranda,” Andy replied, reprising her role of being on-duty for the editor, though now in an altered capacity. Travel companion? Personal assistant? _Friend?_ Now without a boyfriend or apparently a job, Andy didn’t have much of a reason to hurry home.“I would be happy to come with you. What do you need me to do?” she asked, pulling her trusty yellow steno pad from her James Holt bag automatically.

“I will require you to do a great deal, but put _that_ away immediately,” Miranda hissed, pointing to the notepad. It was back in Andy’s bag in an instant. “We can’t afford for anything I’m telling you to become an errant piece of paper blowing in the wind for the paparazzi to find. It’s plain that I need to get out of Paris and quickly, unless I want to be the center of a media circus on two different continents.”

Andy gave Miranda a reassuring nod; she understood completely. “I have a good memory. Shoot.”

“Return to the hotel and pack both of our belongings, mainly essentials. Toiletries, pajamas, shoes, and,” Miranda paused, as if the following words would pain her, “… _regular_ clothes. No obviously expensive couture. I’ll have to pick up a few things along those lines, but I’m assuming that you have some.”

“I do. A few things, at least. What should I do about the couture, though? I can’t just leave it…”

“Of course not. Call the concierge and have it shipped back to New York, to the townhouse. Then I want you to go to the train station and purchase two Eurail Global Passes.”

“Couldn’t I just have the concierge…”

“No. Having them ship the clothing is one thing, but the Eurail passes could leave too many clues about what we’re planning to do. Do keep up Andréa, we’re going incognito, here.”

Andy had no clue how Miranda Priestly, one of the most recognizable women in the world, planned on “going incognito,” but she would go along with it anyway.

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Did you bring jeans other than the ones you’re wearing?”

“Yeah, one spare pair.”

“Skinny?”

“Yes…”

“Good. Keep them out for me, and then I have a black Dior sweater and black leather knee-high boots… not all that dissimilar from your Choos, but for the color,” she nodded approvingly at Andy’s own boots, “Though mine are Prada. I want you to have those handy, as well.”

“I think I can handle all of that,” Andy pronounced, relieved at least that none of Miranda’s initial requests seemed too bizarre or problematic.

“And I’m assuming you have a belt,” Miranda snorted. “Otherwise the jeans will slip right off of my hips.”

Andy tried not to roll her eyes, but she wasn’t sure she was entirely successful. And for some reason, she had to suppress a shiver at the image of her own jeans _on_ Miranda’s hips, or slipping off of them, as she had put it. _No. Nope. Definitely not relevant to anything_.

“So while I’m doing all of this, where are you going to be?”

Miranda stiffened but answered, “Completing a task that will be necessary in concealing my identity. Which reminds me, I need to borrow your phone.” She held out her hand to Andy in a manner indicative of demand.

“Oh. Sure,” agreed Andy, immediately searching through her purse until she located her Sidekick. Her fingers brushed Miranda’s in the exchange, and a shot of warmth ran through Andy’s extremities in spite of the biting autumn wind. In all the time they had been acquainted, boss and employee had shared only small and accidental touches like these, but they sent a disquieting craving through Andy that was difficult to comprehend. “But if you don’t mind my asking, where is _your_ phone?”

“Sunk to the bottom of _La Fontaine des Fleuves_ by now, no doubt,” Miranda declared without elaborating further. Andy tried to keep her jaw off of the pavement at the revelation while Miranda dialed a number into phone, evidently by memory, and waited. Andy had halfway expected Miranda to have _her_ make the phone call.

“Ah, bonjour Étienne. C’est Miranda… oui, oui, je vais bien, merci. Et vous?” There was a pause while Miranda listened, and her socially polite laughter tinkled on cue. Andy could plainly see, though, that the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes. “C’est magnifique, chéri. Mais je dois vous demander, est-ce que je parle avec Jean-Claude, s’il est disponible?” Another brief pause. “Jean-Claude! C’est vraiment moi… oui, je sais que nous n’avons pas parlé depuis longtemps…” Now Miranda almost looked every bit as vulnerable as she had the night before in her hotel suite. Were those _tears_? “Oh, je t’ai manqué ainsi, mon cher. Tout à fait…”

Andy was baffled. Just who the hell was Jean-Claude, and what had he ever done to cause Miranda to behave like a flesh-and-blood human being? She may have not understood every word of Miranda’s end of the conversation; nine years had elapsed between _Runway_ and French II, after all. The former assistant remembered enough verbs to get the gist, nonetheless, and the emotional timbre broke most potential language barriers. Andy tuned back into Miranda’s voice just in time to hear her preparing to hang up.

“… bien. Je pense que je peux y arriver en…” Miranda surprised Andy unequivocally by taking hold of her wrist to see her watch, “… quinze minutes. Oui… à bientôt.”

When Miranda dropped Andy’s left hand and placed the Sidekick back in her right, Andy finally asked, “So where are you going?”

Miranda took a cleansing breath to compose herself, and then after exhaling said, “To visit my very good friend Jean-Claude, who I have not seen in quite some time. Although I assume you gathered that much from your eavesdropping.”

Andy was indignant; it was getting easier by the second to treat Miranda like a regular person. “I don’t really think you can call it eavesdropping when the person is standing a foot away from you and holding onto your wrist.”

“True enough,” shrugged Miranda dryly. “His establishment is at 3 Rue de Plâtre. That’s in Le Marais, in the 4th arrondissement. It’s just down the way from Hotel de Vieux Marais if the cab driver needs more specific instructions. And if you forget any of that, the number is in your phone now. Just call and ask for Étienne, if he’s not the one that answers.” Miranda retrieved her pocketbook from her bag once again and handed Andy yet another wad of Euros. “Here’s enough for cab fare and to tip the concierge for his discretion with the luggage. Any questions?”

_Questions?_ Andy refrained from squeaking. Where to begin… “Regular clothes,” wearing Andy’s jeans, Jean-Claude’s “establishment,” crying on the phone in French. _Never ask Miranda anything_. But if Miranda was asking…

“What if I see someone from _Runway_ at the hotel?”

Miranda sighed. “That should be plain as day, Andréa… you insult your own intelligence by asking.”

“Right,” Andy murmured in a defeated tone. “Not a word.”

“I should say. And I do hope you won’t trouble me with any other matters of common sense.”

“No, I think I’ve got all of it,” Andy said. Though a million questions flitted through Andy’s mind about precisely what the two of them were doing, she decided that she might have opportunity in the coming days to ask Miranda plenty under the right circumstances.

“Good. I expect to see you at Jean-Claude’s in no more than 2 hours.”

And with that, Miranda was off into the crowd just as Giovanni had been, quickly hailing a cab that took off down Quai des Tuileries without delay. Andy’s head spun.

In her shell-shocked state, all she could do was stand there and say, “What the _fuck_?” to no one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> English Translation of Miranda's Phone Conversation:
> 
> “Ah, hello Étienne. It's Miranda… yes, I'm well. and You?” There was a pause while Miranda listened, and her socially polite laughter tinkled on cue. Andy could plainly see, though, that the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes. “That's wonderful, darling. But I have to ask you, could I speak with Jean-Claude, if he's available?” Another brief pause. “Jean-Claude! Yes, it's really me… yes, I know we haven't spoken for a very long time…” Now Miranda almost looked every bit as vulnerable as she had the night before in her hotel suite. Were those tears? “Oh yes my dear, I've missed you too. Very much…”
> 
> “… ok. I think I can be there in…” Miranda surprised Andy unequivocally by taking hold of her wrist to see her watch, “… 15 minutes. Yes... see you soon.”


	4. The Power of Orange Knickers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how much I appreciate the comments and kudos! I want to respond to each one, and I'm going to try harder to do that. Recitals are over and my camps have been canceled, which is actually fine by me, so YAY hopefully I'll have more time to write in the next few weeks! I love you guys!

After the world around her came back into focus from the jumbling confusion that swirled amidst Miranda’s departure, Andy regained her wits and hailed herself a taxi. She tried in vain to make sense of the last hour in Miranda’s presence as Paris whooshed by her on the way back to the Plaza Athénée. So Andy’s ex-boss was doing _something_ to alter her appearance, Andy was packing and getting train tickets, picking up Miranda, and then they were getting on a train… and to go where and do _what_ exactly? _Are we going on vacation?_ Andy wondered.

Now that was a perplexing notion… Miranda Priestly, on vacation, and ostensibly relaxing. Andy would have to see it to believe it, and such a novelty seemed plausible at this point. And Miranda needed to purchase street clothes, which would also likely mean a trip to some type of department store-esque establishment. Andy wondered how long it had been since Miranda had worn _anything_ off the rack; she hardly dared to venture a guess, but Andy was pretty sure the number of years would be in double digits.

As soon as she paid the cab driver, Andy took off into the hotel like a shot. She rode the elevator up to the sixth floor and used the spare key card that Miranda had given her at the beginning of the week to tackle Miranda’s luggage first. Andy could easily have her own things ready in a matter of minutes, but Miranda’s walk-in closet-worth of belongings would take longer to sort through. And what had Miranda said? _Mainly essentials. Right._ But what constituted “mainly essentials” in Miranda-ese?

Since she could specifically remember the mention of toiletries, Andy began her packing in the suite’s decadently vast master bathroom. Not surprisingly, nearly all of Miranda’s haircare products and make-up were top-of-the-line, designer brands. It was strangely intimate, though, to handle the most necessary of the items, the ones that put her on the same level with the rest of the world; Miranda used Dove body wash and Crest toothpaste. Andy placed all of it in an elegant blue and gold Prada bag that sat on the counter, obviously designed for transporting toiletries.

Although Andy was thankful that Miranda didn’t seem to go overboard with personal care products when traveling, she accepted that she wouldn’t be so lucky with the editor’s stash of apparel. Thankfully the bulk of the finer couture would be sent on to New York, but this still left Andy with the incredibly daunting task of sifting through the massive collection and trying to read Miranda’s mind on what would be deemed as “essential.” _What else did she say besides toiletries?_ Andy tried to remember and went to open the large closet in the bedroom.

She caught sight of the gray robe Miranda had worn the night before on a hanger and remembered the other two items: pajamas and shoes. While both important in their own right, Andy’s practical sensibilities also reminded her that Miranda would need underclothes, the very plainest of the tops, blouses, skirts and pants that were present, and at least some of her jewelry. Since she was already halfway in the closet, Andy pulled two nondescript Chanel pencil skirts off of their hangers, one pinstripe black and the other a deep purple. Nearby hung a pair of comfortable-looking black slacks; probably Ralph Lauren, but Andy hardly had the inclination to check given the circumstances.

To the right of the pants and skirts hung blouses and then dresses in a variety of colors and patterns. Andy selected four blouses, all from varying designers, that were solid-colored and simply cut; she felt the ones with more outlandish patterns and daring necklines would draw too much attention. Attempting to achieve similar results in her choice of dresses, Andy decided on a blue wrap dress from Calvin Klein and basic black one by Donna Karan. The requested black Dior sweater hung nearby, and Andy pulled it from the hanger and set it on a chair.

The bottom of the massive closet contained Miranda’s extensive assortment of shoes. They laid in wait like a firing squad, just daring Andy to make a poor footwear choice on Miranda’s behalf. Andy first located the black Prada boots to which her former boss had made specific reference and set them aside with the sweater. But what to do about the rest of them? There were at least twelve other pairs of shoes, and Andy was reasonably sure that Miranda’s closet at home held at least five times that.

_Well, she’s wearing her favorite Pradas, then there’s the boots, and then…_ “How many other pairs could she possibly need?” Andy wondered aloud. She appreciated that it was a loaded question, and she would just have to make an educated guess. Looking over the choices, Andy’s eyes gravitated to the sole pair of flats; they were gray and would go with almost anything. And if they had to do a lot of walking, flats would come in handy. Andy also noticed a pair of 3 inch tan Louboutins that she had seen Miranda wear frequently enough to warrant notice; those would go, as well.

_Three pairs of shoes and a pair of boots. I hope that’s good enough_ , Andy mused. If she was going to fit everything she had chosen into Miranda’s larger Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase, it would have to be.

Upon entering the large master bedroom of the suite beforehand, Andy had noticed the antique mahogany bureau by the door. She now turned away from the closet and faced it head on, her psyche’s nemesis across the room. Miranda undoubtedly kept her pajamas in those drawers, but that would also be where she kept her… _drawers_. Andy giggled nervously to herself; surely Miranda realized that asking her former assistant to pack for her would entail Andy handling her undergarments. It seemed like an incredible show of trust on the intensely private woman’s part, and the sudden swell of pride at the compliment spread through Andy until it pushed her past her nervousness and across the room.

She opened the top drawer first, and just as Andy had anticipated, it held what was surely some of the most expensive lingerie in the world. While the colors were varied, they were within a limited range, mostly pale blue, gray, beige and black bras and panties. And thigh-high stockings. _Oh God._ It was a sea of lace, silk, and satin, and Andy did her best to grab matched sets and place them into the Louis Vuitton on the bed without lingering too long on the same fabric that had touched Miranda so intimately.

She also tried, though mostly in vain, not to let her thoughts linger upon the implications of the little shocks running up her spine because she was handling Miranda’s underwear. Of course that wasn’t particularly significant. _It would be awkward to handle your boss’s underwear under pretty much any circumstances¸_ Andy reasoned. But she couldn’t entirely classify what she was feeling as awkward. Intrigued, yes. Maybe even thrilled. _NO_ , Andy chastised herself. _Not thrilled. Miranda’s underwear is not thrilling. It’s… weird. Yeah. Definitely weird. Not exciting. Not at all._

The conundrum reminded Andy of one of her favorite movies about Paris: _Sabrina_. Not the original film with Audrey Hepburn, but the remake with Julia Ormond and Harrison Ford. When Mack, the secretary of Harrison’s character, Linus Larabee, had to go to his apartment with his mother to pack _his_ things for Paris, she had likened going through her boss’s underwear drawer to “touching the Shroud of Turin.” Andy giggled at the parallel, and she finally felt some of her nerves abate.

She ended up packing almost all of the undergarments, because of all the clothing items, those were the ones that were least likely to be worn more than once before they would need to be washed. Not that Miranda was probably accustomed to wearing anything that hadn’t been dry-cleaned every single time she wore it; but depending on where they were going, that might be an inevitable outcome.

Andy moved on to the second drawer in the dresser, and there she found Miranda’s neatly folded pajamas in tones similar to her undergarments. After the predictably provocative nature of those, she felt relieved to find the tameness of Miranda’s sleeping attire. Not surprisingly, it was comparably chic in its own way to the rest of her wardrobe.

Underneath the pajamas, though, Andy found a small and relatively simple wooden box. She hesitated to look inside; but it didn’t seem to lock, so Andy figured the contents couldn’t be anything terribly sensitive. Upon opening it, she found many of the jewelry pieces she had become accustomed to seeing on Miranda: various dangly earrings, necklaces, bracelets and rings. It was no wonder she didn’t leave her accessories laying around the way most people did; with that assortment of gold, silver, diamonds, there was easily five grand’s worth of jewelry in that box. Andy was surprised she didn’t have it locked up in the safe.

After setting three pairs of pajamas and the jewelry box in the suitcase, Andy looked at her watch. She had already been back at the hotel for nearly half an hour. If she was going to pack her own belongings and arrange for the rest of Miranda’s to be shipped back to New York with enough time to make it to Jean-Claude’s by 3:00, she needed to hurry. It was a close call, but Andy managed to fit everything she thought her former boss would need into the stylish Louis Vuitton. She wondered what Miranda would say if she knew that Andy had to _sit_ on said stylish valise to force it shut.

Rolling Miranda’s suitcase behind her, Andy took once last glance around the suite. She would always remember this hotel, and this space, because in it she had experienced the shock of Miranda’s untried humanity for the first time. The ex-assistant knew that she would never forget a defeated gray-robed figure, devoid of makeup, and the trace of Chanel No. 5 that hung in the air mixed with something Andy could never quite pinpoint. That scent still lingered even as she closed the door behind her and headed for her own much smaller room, holding the specified black sweater and boots under her arm while she pulled the Louis Vuitton behind her.

Packing her own belongings proved relatively uneventful, and as she had anticipated much simpler than packing Miranda’s. Andy had certainly grown to appreciate couture and its role in the world during the last several months. When it came to stripping down to essentials, however, the aspiring journalist easily discerned what was necessary and what wasn’t for herself. Basic toiletries, all of the casual clothes she had brought, a few nicer dresses that she thought would tolerate the suitcase best, undergarments, pajamas, and one pair of black Prada heels and the Nikes she had packed on the off-chance she actually got to go sight-seeing.

Though Andy still had no idea where they were going, she realized that sight-seeing might be a possibility now that she would be off the clock in any official capacity. Somehow she had difficulty imagining Miranda as a _tourist_ of all things. _But what else do we really have to do?_ Andy wondered to herself. There would be no Book, no deadlines, no endless list of calls to field and return and no errands to run. _Well…. scratch that,_ Andy corrected herself. _No work-related errands to run._ Though she understood that she currently remained by Miranda’s side by choice, she highly doubted that her days of fetching were over and done.

And speaking of fetching… hadn’t Miranda said that Andy was… _fetching_ … at some point during her unguarded little spiel the night previously?

“What on earth was _that_ supposed to mean, anyway?” Andy muttered out loud as she awkwardly climbed onto her own unremarkable luggage, which sat on the room’s lone plush chair, to make it zip. Miranda had kind of been rambling at that point; it probably didn’t mean anything at all. This was getting ridiculous. Andy knew that she would have to stop dissecting Miranda’s every word and move over the last twenty-four hours, or she would definitely go crazy. _Crazier_ , she corrected in her own head. She had long ago crossed into certifiable territory in the name of Miranda Priestly, after all.

Andy located her own carry-on bag and placed in it Miranda’s boots and sweater, her own extra pair of skinny jeans, a belt, and a pair of trouser socks for good measure. She didn’t know if Miranda would want to change out of her stockings. It felt kind of strange to even speculate on that possibility, but Andy knew that she personally would be uncomfortable wearing nylons under jeans. _Yeah… nothing weird about considering the comfort of Miranda’s legs. I’m just being polite._

Andy knew that it would be difficult to maneuver both her own suitcase and Miranda’s all the way to the lobby, so she decided to call the desk for the bellhop. In almost no time at all, an impeccably polite young man was knocking at her door and offering his assistance with a luggage cart. Following him to the elevator, the two rode down to the opulent lobby in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a Meryl/Francesca/DWP blog over on tumblr... i-am-fancesca-johnson if anyone's interested.


	5. Skyscraper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks... I'm hoping to get more writing time in this week! *crosses fingers*

Upon arriving back on the first floor, Andy went immediately to the concierge’s desk and began making arrangements for the remainder of hers and Miranda’s things to be sent back to America. Andy apologized for not having packed the items herself, but the mustached gentleman quashed her concerns with a congenial wave and immediately dispatched an efficient-looking team of six hotel employees to complete the task.

 _Alright_ , Andy thought to herself. _Clothing, necessities, everything else is being shipped, and I have under an hour to spare._ Miranda had said she should be at Jean-Claude’s in “no more than two hours,” but Andy was pretty sure that meant about an hour and a half if she was still going on _Runway_ time.

“And is there anything else I can do for you, Mademoiselle?” the concierge asked with the universal tone of patronization that the French reserved for Americans who did not speak their language.

“Um…” Andy began dumbly, but didn’t quite know how to answer. She still needed the train tickets, but Miranda had said not to have the concierge handle that. _Hm_. “Where can I find the nearest train station?” She hoped that was safe enough.

“And where would Madame Priestly like to travel?” he inquired, already typing away on his computer screen. “I had the impression that she would be staying with us through the end of Fashion Week.”

“Yeah, well… Madame Priestly has a tendency to change her plans when it suits her,” Andy shot back with a stiff smile and hopefully enough bite to quash the uppity man’s nosiness.

He coughed slightly, and continued, “Yes, of course, Mademoiselle. I’d be happy to make the arrangements for you.”

“Actually, _Madame_ has requested that I take care of the train arrangements myself. So if you could just direct me to a station…”

“The station from which you depart depends entirely on where you wish to travel. And if you were planning to buy one of the Eurail passes, those can also be purchased on the internet.”

Andy thought for a moment; Miranda had actually only given her enough money for the cab in both directions and tipping the hotel staff. And considering the ambiguity of her financial status, Andy hesitated to bust out her own Visa for the cause; the limit probably wouldn’t cover the cost, anyway. _Dammit_. She would have to go to Jean-Claude’s before she could take care of the train. Though additional money for the fare had not occurred to either of them, Andy was pretty sure she knew whose fault the oversight would be according to Miranda. She really hoped that Jean-Claude’s establishment, whatever it was, would have Wi-Fi, or at the very least a fast Ethernet connection.

“ _Merci_ , monsieur. You’ve been very helpful,” Andy smiled, if somewhat insincerely and turned to follow the waiting bellhop to the front entrance. Just when Andy thought she was getting off scot free in regards to potential awkward encounters with _Runway_ staff, she almost ran smack dab into Nigel on her way out the door.

“And where in the world did _you_ scurry off to in such a rush?” he demanded. “You missed quite a feast.” Nigel quickly took in the scene of Andy trailing the bellhop, who toted Miranda’s one-of-a-kind Louis Vittan. “And where are you going now… with Miranda’s luggage?” He pointed, “And your own?”

Andy shrugged. “Even if I knew where we were going, I couldn’t tell you.”

“We,” he bristled. “ ‘We’ as in you and Miranda?” She nodded in affirmation. “Why are you going anywhere with Miranda? You know she’s been ousted. You knew before I knew.”

Andy had a feeling that Nigel wouldn’t be easily dismissed, so she nicely asked the saintly bellhop if he would mind taking the luggage outside and hailing a cab to wait for her. She gave him part of his tip up front, and the young man gave her a clipped, but congenial nod and went ahead on his errand.

“Yeah, and with the stunt I pulled walking out today I didn’t exactly endear myself to Irv or Jacqueline, did I?” she answered after the bellhop departed.

“Well… no. But to be honest, I’m not sure either of them really noticed when you left. You didn’t exactly do a baton-twirling routine and sing ‘Don’t Rain On My Parade.’ I’m reasonably certain you still have a job… if you want one, that is.”

It was funny; it hadn’t even occurred to Andy that Miranda’s assessment of her state of employment could be wrong.

“I don’t know if I do, actually,” Andy said, and Nigel frowned. “I don’t know if I want to continue as part of a… _regime_ that would so carelessly throw away the woman who reinvented _Runway_ when it was about to fold twenty years ago and _quadrupled_ its profits inside five years.”

Though Nigel’s eyebrows rose at Andy’s unexpected depth of knowledge about Miranda’s impact on the magazine, he still reminded her, “The profits aren’t what they used to be, Six… not in this economy.”

“No, I’m sure they aren’t. But you can’t tell me she’s losing Elias-Clarke any money, even so. And the economy shouldn’t dictate professional integrity… of which it’s obvious Irv Ravitz has exactly none.”

“And so just what is your plan? Sticking by Miranda’s side? She doesn’t even have a job for herself right now, and you think she’ll be so impressed by your flagrant loyalty that she’ll put your need for a livelihood _above_ her own?”

“No, not above. I don’t expect that.” _What exactly do I expect?_ Andy really didn’t know. She was pretty much talking out of her ass at this point, and she needed to get Nigel off her back so she could at the very least be on time to meet Miranda. “But she needs _someone_ right now.”

“She has a family, Andy. They can…”

“Stephen’s leaving her,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

“ _What?_ Oh, Jesus.” Nigel sighed heavily. “Of course the timing is atrocious, but I can’t say I’m surprised. After the way things were between them at the gala last month, I had a feeling there was a timestamp on that marriage.”

“Yeah.”

“How long have you known?”

“She told me last night. Almost by accident, I think. She wasn’t… quite herself,” reflected Andy.

“Well that explains a few things,” remarked Nigel.

“What do you mean?” she asked, not without suspicion.

“This whole… toppling of the Snow Queen’s empire. Normally Miranda’s instincts would have sniffed out Irv’s intentions to replace her weeks, or even months ago. She plays her moves with the board of Elias-Clarke like chess; it’s a long game involving a lot of strategy and biding time and well-placed words. It would seem that the conflicts in her personal life unintentionally gave Irv just the right window to invade.”

If it was possible for Andy’s face to fall even further, it did. “Looks like,” she sighed.

“I’m glad I won’t have to be around for the aftermath at _Runway_ , in any event. The changing of the guard is bound to be unpleasant, and there will probably be more than a few people sacked. Who knows? I could have been one of them.”

“Me too,” Andy added pointedly. “Especially since I worked directly under Miranda.”

“And that seems to be staying the same, for the time being. Level with me, Andy. Really, I want what’s best for her… she’s spent the last eighteen years making my life a living hell on and off, but I owe her a lot,” he admitted. Looking genuinely concerned, Nigel pressed, “Is she ok?”

“I honestly have no idea,” she replied. “Miranda’s a tough read on a _good_ day. She did talk to me a little bit, but not about anything with Irv or Jacqueline or _Runway_.”

“And you really don’t know where you’re going.”

“Nope. She didn’t tell me a thing… probably so that I wouldn’t have to get all flustered and try to lie if I ran into you or anyone else. I mean she told me where to meet her, but not anything beyond that. And I was hardly about to perform an interrogation.”

“Understood… I tried calling her after the luncheon, but it went straight to voice mail. She must have turned off her phone.” Andy shrugged but otherwise remained silent at that observation; no need to get chatty about the water-logged fate of Miranda’s RAZR. “Well, come here and give me a hug, darling,” Nigel prodded, opening his arms. Andy went willingly, surprised at how comforting the simple gesture was after the out-of-control spiral of her day.

Giving her friend a tight squeeze and shutting her eyes, Andy said, “Thanks, Nigel. For everything.”

“Oh for God’s sake, we’re not dying,” he chuckled, pulling back and giving her a tender smile. “We’ll see each other, I’m sure… whenever Miranda decides she’s ready to face the world again. I know I don’t envy you right now… she’s probably going to be an absolute nightmare for the foreseeable future.”

Andy almost snorted. “And that would be different than usual because…”

“Excellent point… you’ve always been a sharp one. Really, though…” Nigel began, and his demeanor turned serious. “If you need anything, or if Miranda needs anything…” he seemed to hesitate, almost as if he was conflicted about the words that would follow. “If you think anything is seriously wrong, if she seems _really_ off… _please_ call me. Day or night. I mean it, Six.”

“Ok…” Andy’s expression twisted in confusion. “Nigel… what…”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Nigel dismissed, quickly schooling his features before removing his glasses to rub them on the coordinating handkerchief that accented the pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m probably more worried than I should be. But I’ve known Miranda a long time…” he put is glasses back on, “I’ve seen how much of her life she’s put into… _and given up_ for her work. She’s earned the right to have a few bad days over that snake throwing her from the gilded tower she proved largely instrumental in building.”

“Lucky me,” mumbled Andy. True, she’d seen Miranda through some dark moods, but after listening to the insight of the woman’s long-time friend, the panic started to rise in Andy that she might really be in over her head.

“Well, lucky her, at any rate, because she’ll have you with her. And maybe even _lucky you_ , too… Miranda could probably count on one hand the number of people she trusts in this whole world. And somehow, in an inordinately short amount of time, you’ve made it onto that miniscule list. No matter what she may say… because I have a feeling the verbal abuse is about to come roaring back… never doubt that you’re special.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Andy responded with a falsely confident nod. “I really do have to go, though… I’m on a deadline.”

“Shocking,” Nigel snarked, but he took her hand and gave it one last squeeze. “I’ll miss you, Six. And call me when you can, alright?”

“Will do, Nige. And I’m going to miss you, too… so much,” Andy sniffled, even as she finally moved toward the revolving door.

“Remember: not dying, just taking a communication hiatus. Bye, doll,” he waved before continuing on to the elevator.

“Got it. Bye.”

When Andy reached the waiting cab, the bellboy was just putting the last of the luggage in the trunk. She gave him the rest of his tip and the most profuse thanks she could muster in his native language; he seemed grateful.

Giving the driver a courteous smile in the rear view mirror, Andy said, “3 Rue de Plâtre, s’il vous plait.”

“Oui, Mademoiselle,” he answered gruffly.

Andy figured he must know where he was going if he didn’t ask for specifics, so she laid her head back on the leather seat and watched Paris yet again from the inside of a car. She wondered if she would get to see more of… wherever they were going… than she did of Paris. Closing her eyes, she could only hope.


	6. Bad Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is kind of short... it was either break the longer chunk into two or wait another week.
> 
> Also, I reserve the right the change the name of this chapter later. I'm not sure this suits it, but I couldn't find a better fitting song theme as of posting time.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THE REVIEWS AND KUDOS!!! :-D

While sitting under the oddly comforting white noise of the overhead hair dryer at Jean-Claude Girard’s locally famous salon, _Coiffure à la Mode_ , Miranda Priestly thumbed through the latest edition of _Runway France_. She didn’t know why she subjected herself to such an unenjoyable pastime, although the now former editor of American _Runway_ suspected it was akin to one’s inability to look away from the scene of a grisly accident. And grisly it was; poorly organized layouts left and right, appalling color combinations and utterly uninspired models arranged haphazardly by unmistakably substandard art directors and photographers.

 _Cheap_ , Miranda sputtered internally as she cast the magazine aside onto the neighboring table as if its plague of inadequacy could be contagious. She crossed her arms across her chest, defiant of her current predicament and disgusted with the idea that goddamn _Jacqueline Follet_ of all people would soon enough allow such an unthinkable fate to befall the once sacrosanct pages of Elias-Clarke’s premier fashion publication. Well. If Irv Ravitz didn’t want to spend for the likes of DeMarchalier and Testino, then his tight-fistedness would garner him exactly that for which he was willing to pay; some long-haired, long-suffering, smack-addicted kid from the East Village with a second-hand Nikon.

Miranda knew that she would indeed revel in Irv’s eventual demise, but the other side of that blade of glory would assuredly cut her deeply, as well. Two decades of her life had grown _Runway_ from a fledgling seedling to fully-blossomed orchid: equally rare in its beauty and its success. And now it would be reduced to horribly gauche drek at the hands of Irv and Jacqueline.

Jean-Claude broke her train of thought when he lifted the dryer with polished efficiency and looked over the top of his chic reading glasses to check the neatly organized pieces of foil folded in Miranda’s hair. With his salt and pepper goatee and thinning hairline but otherwise mostly unchanging features, Miranda could never quite determine how old he was. She had always guessed that he was five or six years older than herself based on how long his name had been known in the industry.

“Cinq minutes,” he declared as he put the dryer back down. “And I don’t know if anything besides the obvious life-altering incident has your face contorted in that position, but aren’t you afraid it will stick like that?” Jean-Claude asked in heavily accented French. He nodded his head toward Miranda’s mouth, but she couldn’t hear a word he had said.

“What?” she all but yelled, attempting to stick an ear outside of the noise. “I will never understand why stylists put the dryer back down on your head and _then_ try to initiate a conversation. It’s the same as the dentist asking you questions when your mouth is full of their tools.”

Jean-Claude bent down in front of her face. “Your lips, darling. _Pamplemousse_.” Miranda rolled her eyes, but didn’t subject one of her oldest friends to the wrath that almost any other human would have incurred by speaking to her in such a way.

“You always say that when I sulk,” she bristled. “I’ll talk to you when I’m out from under this contraption.”

Miranda found his candor mildly annoying, if for no other reason than she had become accustomed to everyone around her bending to her every whim. Normally, the only exceptions were the twins and Stephen, of course. Jean-Claude would do no such thing, though, and overall the sting of honesty came as a refreshing change. He had known Miranda as a nobody and then a somebody, and then still when she shrank back to anonymity and finally burst forth in her current incarnation as La Priestly. He shrugged at the rebuke, perceptive of her temperament even though he hadn’t seen her in years and busied himself by straightening up the small, windowless room that housed his private studio.

Miranda smirked all but imperceptibly as she watched him; some things never changed. As long as she had known Jean-Claude, which spanned all the way back to the meteoric rise of the modern fashion industry in the 1970’s, he had always preferred to look after his own work area. Even thirty years prior he was already one of the most sought-after stylists around the globe; he could certainly afford to pass off the task to one of his minions. But he continued to sweep the fallen locks from the floor and refill his bottles of products and re-organize his utensils as fastidiously as he had during his apprenticeship in an upscale Parisian salon all those years ago.

Although Miranda couldn’t hear it, a sharp rap on the door drew Jean-Claude from his tasks. Of course, it was Etienne.

“De quoi as-tu besoin?” he asked his receptionist-cum-boyfriend upon opening it.

“L’assistante de Miranda est arrivée … Mademoiselle a dit qu’elle a besoin de parler avec elle,” Etienne informed him, giving Miranda a fond little wave, which she indulged him by returning. Smiling didn’t come naturally to her period and especially not under the current circumstances. But in the decade or so that she had known Etienne, his sincere veneration had never ceased to be adorable to Miranda. Not that she would permit anyone to realize that. _Ridiculous_.

“Bien, donne moi une minute.” Jean-Claude pulled the door closed when Etienne went back to the reception area. He walked over to Miranda and lifted up the dryer. “Yes, that should do nicely,” he said, casually brushing his fingers through the foil. “Your assistant is here. She said she needs to speak with you.”

“What time is it?”

“The clock is right over there,” Jean-Claude answered absently, not looking up as he started unpeeling the shiny material from Miranda’s once white hair.

Miranda squinted. “2:45. She’s early.”

“Early in the real world, or early on _your_ time, darling?”

“Whatever _that’s_ supposed to mean,” Miranda sniffed. “I said not more than two hours. Well, she isn’t terribly early then. Put a towel over my head and then show her in here,” she intoned with her usual air of command.

“Mira.” She went rigid at the nickname, but her friend was undeterred as he looked her straight in the eyes. “I canceled my entire afternoon… which I will have you know included a trim for the American ambassador’s wife… and cleared all of the other stylists out of my salon so that you would not be recognized. That little _mademoiselle_ may work for you, but I must remind you that I do not. _I_ am your friend… and I am doing _you_ a favor.”

He did know that her whole world was essentially falling down around her. If Jean-Claude had learned anything about Miranda over the years, however, it was that her few real friends did her no favors by following the worshipful lead of her other sycophants, present circumstances aside.

She narrowed her eyes but civilly asked in his native tongue, “S’il vous plaît, Jean-Claude, pourriez-vous l’amener ici?”

“That’s better,” he smirked. Grabbing a spotless white towel off of the well-ordered shelf of supplies, he wrapped it around Miranda’s head and said as sweetly as he possibly could, “Oui ma chérie, ça me ferait plaisir.” She rolled her eyes, but he pretended not to see it.

Upon entering the reception area, Jean-Claude was pleased to find a smiling and classically gorgeous brunette having an amiable chat with Etienne in his less-than-polished English.

“And you like our lovely Paris, yes?” Etienne asked brightly.

Andy laughed a little nervously. “Yeah, it’s… breathtaking. I feel like I’ve seen most of it from the inside of a car, though. Unless you count the shows as scenery… which I guess they are, in a way.”

Jean-Claude was already impressed by the sole assistant of Miranda’s in his recollection that the icon had not maligned in his presence, and he had yet to converse with her himself.

“Ah, the perils of Fall Fashion Week,” Jean-Claude interjected, making his presence known. “You must be Andréa,” he said, taking her hand and placing a kiss upon it. “Jean-Claude Girard. Welcome to my salon.”

“Merci,” Andy blushed, still unaccustomed to the outwardly genteel manners of Miranda’s set.

“You may follow me… Miranda is back in my private studio.” Andy stood and did. “I understand you’ve had quite the eventful day.”

“You could say that,” she sighed. Before Jean-Claude could open the door that would lead to Miranda, however, Andy placed a stilling hand on it. Her voice just above a whisper, she said, “So I’m assuming she told you what happened.”

“Oui.” His expression was concerned but guarded.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’ve known her for a long time.”

He smirked. “Since she was younger than you I daresay, _ma petite_.”

“I had a feeling. The way she was talking to you on the phone… she doesn’t usually talk to people so… casually.” Andy hesitated. “Look… I know we don’t really know each other, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re betraying any kind of confidence. But it looks like I’m going to be spending time with her kind of indefinitely. As someone who’s known her a long time, how do you think she’s doing?”

“Right now? I think she is in shock… in her head she knows what happened, but she does not yet comprehend it in her heart. When she catches up to the full force of betrayal that has been wrought upon her, I expect a rampage.”

“Yeah.”

“But that is still much better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Conceding defeat.”

Andy shook her head. “I can’t even conceive of that.”

“Nor I. It is not a part of her vernacular that I know of. And I hope it will stay that way,” Jean-Claude studied the young woman who had turned from laughing to serious on a dime. “I can see why she likes you.”

“Well…” she shuffled. People said things to that effect to Andy increasingly often lately, and she didn’t know what to think. Miranda hardly showered her with compliments, but in the last few months her complaints had grown fewer and farther between. Andy thought _like_ might be too strong a word; _tolerate_ seemed more apt. Though only God… and maybe the devil… himself knew why Miranda even tolerated Andy better than almost anyone else at _Runway_ with the exception of Nigel.

Before Andy could add her own thoughts on the matter, Miranda’s perturbed voice inquired from within the studio, “Were you two planning on coming in here sometime this week, or do you strive to waste your time and mine with idle chatter while I sit here in a state of suspended animation?”

Andy snorted indelicately. “Well, she sure sounds enough like herself right now, doesn’t she?”

Jean-Claude answered with a quiet laugh of his own and opened the door. “Shall we?” They both stepped through, and he closed the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here are the translations for the French... I still haven't gotten around the fixing the mistakes I made with that in the earlier chapter, but I plan to do it soon.
> 
> "cinq minutes"- five minutes
> 
> "pamplemousse"- grapefruit
> 
> “De quoi as-tu besoin?” - What do you need?  
> “L’assistante de Miranda est arrivée … Mademoiselle a dit qu’elle a besoin de parler avec elle,” - Miranda's assistant has arrived... she said that she needs to speak with her."  
> “Bien, donne moi une minute.”- Ok, give me a minute.
> 
> “S’il vous plaît, Jean-Claude, pourriez-vous l’amener ici?” - Jean-Claude, would you please bring her in here?  
> “Oui ma chérie, ça me ferait plaisir.” - Yes my darling, it would give me great pleasure.
> 
> I hope I did better this time!


	7. Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently this space will be used as a permanent forum for my apologies about my updates being so few and far between. And also to thank all of you for the lovely reviews and kudos... I PROMISE I'm going to try to be better about responding to people that leave me comments. I know, I suck. Anywho, a few more personal notes at the end. Please enjoy the read :-)

Miranda was quite a sight sitting in the stylist’s chair. As one would expect to find in any salon, she wore typical nondescript black cape along with the previously requested white towel wrapped around her head. Andy had to work pretty hard to stifle a giggle; with the exception of those sacred few hired for the purpose of seeing to her appearance, it was unheard of for anyone to see Miranda less than one hundred percent put together. She had already allowed the façade to drop for Andy the night before, but the former assistant was still far from unstirred by the familiarity it implied.

Miranda steepled her fingers and narrowed her eyes. “Well?” she probed impatiently. “Did you make all of the arrangements?”

“I have our luggage… I did my best to pick some things out for you. I think I got all of the essentials… but we can always go shopping if I missed something important.” Miranda nodded. “The concierge sent a team to pack the rest of it, and it will all be sent to the townhouse. I guess my stuff will be sent there, too… I didn’t think about that. Is that…?”

“Yes, yes… fine. We’ll sort it out when we get back to New York. The Eurail passes?”

“I… wasn’t able to buy them yet.” Andy admitted sheepishly.

“Well, why ever not?” Miranda bristled. “Honestly, my directions were clear as…”

But Andy interrupted, “You only gave me enough money for the taxi and tips… and those passes are expensive. God knows my Visa limit wouldn’t cover it.”

“Oh,” Miranda remarked. After thinking a moment, she frowned again and informed the other woman with a snooty air, “That should have occurred to you before I left. You should have asked me for more money.” Andy’s eyes looked heavenward, beckoning the same patience she had pursued for months on end. It came, but she couldn’t suppress an empty laugh all the same. “And what, may I ask, is so incredibly humorous?”

“Just the fact that I already knew you would say that. Of course it’s my fault.”

“It was your job to accomplish all of the tasks in a timely manner.”

“My job?!” Andy squeaked incredulously. Her aggravation at Miranda’s nerve did wonders to fuel her confidence, and she could feel her face getting hot. “No, Miranda. I don’t have _a job_ right now. I have _chosen_ to help you in your time of need, because it’s so totally obvious that you need _someone_.” Andy’s voice had grown louder as she went on, and Miranda matched her decibel for decibel when she responded.

Her stare burned. “My time of… you don’t know anything about what I _need_.”

“Well, since apparently you can’t lift a finger to do anything for yourself…”

“Of all the insolent, presumptuous…”

“… I would say that you do need a personal maid or maybe a _babysitter_ at your beck and call…”

“… what in the _hell_ was I thinking, asking you to accompany me…”

A piercing wolf-whistle echoed through the tiny room, and both women stopped their argument abruptly and fixed Jean-Claude with surprised eyes. Miranda’s usually pale complexion now blushed an embarrassing shade of pink, and Andy’s breathing had grown shallow.

“Mon dieu… what is it they say in sports? _Timeout_!” Both women made to start speaking again, but he interrupted before either had a chance. “Miranda.” Her head snapped forward to look at Jean-Claude, her icy glance just daring him to push her buttons any further. “From what I’ve gathered, this young lady is no longer your employee. Correct?

Her eyes darted toward Andy and then away from the both of them. Lips pursed. “Correct.”

“And essentially, she is here… still helping you… out of the goodness of her heart?”

“She’s getting a free trip to the south of France out of it,” Miranda sniped.

Andy shot her a curious look. _The south of France? Well I guess that narrows it down._

“Mira…” Jean-Claude began, and Andy tried not to be amused at the petulant shadow that crossed Miranda’s face upon hearing the nickname.

“ _Yes_. I suppose.” She sent Andy a sidelong glance, looking away again when Andy tried to meet her eyes. “It’s not as if I can read her mind and decipher all of her motives.”

“And Andréa.” Now her head whipped around. “You wish to help Miranda, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Because you do not wish to see her suffer further than she already has today.”

Andy glanced carefully at Miranda, and Miranda glanced back, apparently interested in her answer. Some of the ice was gone.

Andy sighed and looked right at Miranda as she affirmed, “That’s right.”

“Bien. Miranda, will you try to be more courteous of Andréa since she is helping you… how is it you say… beyond the call of duty?”

“Well I… that is…” she stumbled. It was Jean-Claude’s turn to quirk an eyebrow. Miranda scowled. “I suppose.”

“Bien. And Andréa… will you try to take Miranda’s heightened emotional state into consideration in your interactions?”

“My _heightened emotional state_?! Really Jean-Claude, you can’t just…” But it was the stylist’s turn to execute a withering glance, and Miranda’s mouth snapped closed immediately.

The former assistant tried and failed not to grin, but did sincerely answer, “I’ll do my best.”

“Très bien. Then ladies, you have an accord.”

“Oh for God’s sake Jean-Claude, you’re not Johnny Depp in that awful ‘Pirates’ film.” He laughed, and so did Andréa. The hint of a smirk even played at Miranda’s lips.

“Still, I think you should shake on it, as a show of good faith,” Jean-Claude proclaimed.

Andy shrugged at Miranda in an “I’m willing to if you are” sort of way. Miranda limply shrugged back, and so Andy walked over to the chair and stuck out her hand.

“Ceasefire?” asked Andy as she offered her hand. Miranda didn’t respond verbally, but she did take it and gave a curt nod of agreement. The two had never held hands before- there had never been any reason for it- but both held on just a few seconds longer than would be deemed socially appropriate.

It pained Miranda to let go first; though she would rather die than admit it, she longed for the comfort of genuine human contact amidst such turmoil. And the feel of Andréa’s hand in hers was causing her brain to entertain some blatantly absurd notions. _I’ll bet she gives excellent hugs,_ she thought before she could stop herself. The twins had been her only source of those for ages. And as preteens their displays of affection were dwindling by the day, to say nothing of the bearing of her long hours and the presence of a mercurial stepfather on their already fragile relationship.

On Andy’s end, she also found herself disappointed when Miranda drew back her fingers with something that resembled… reluctance? It was by far the longest touch they had shared to date, and Andy hadn’t wanted it to end. She was beginning to think that the protective layer of denial she had built around herself about her evolving and _very_ unprofessional feelings for Miranda in recent weeks was cracking. _I want to hold Miranda’s hand_ , Andy finally said within the confines of her own head. _I want to hold HER._

Ten or fifteen seconds passed as these thoughts flickered through both their heads, and former boss and subordinate continued to regard one another contemplatively. Jean-Claude looked from one to the other in subdued disbelief, easily sensing the wavelength of tangible energy between the two women. He found himself hoping that no one at _Runway_ had observed such an interaction between them; Miranda didn’t need any accusations of untoward behavior with an employee, and a female one at that, in the midst of more pressing matters.

“Andréa,” he finally said, and they both looked at him. “Are you in need of a computer to book your train passes?”

She smiled at Jean-Claude, relieved. “Yeah, that would be great. Do you have wifi?”

“No, but you are welcome to one of the computers at the front desk. Etienne can put in the password for you.”

“Thank you. Oh, Miranda… the concierge at the hotel said I would need to know our destination to make seating reservations because the departing station is determined by where we’re going. You said the south of France, but I’ll need to know…”

“Nice.”

“ _Nice_? As in the Riviera?” Andy tried and failed to contain her excitement. “Wow. I never thought I’d…”

“Yes, I’m sure not. At least not at this juncture in life with your current financial standing.”

Andy tried to ignore the dig. “The website may tell me, but Jean-Claude would you happen to know which station we would need for Nice?”

He rubbed his beard a minute, then answered. “I am almost positive that you will depart from Gare de Lyon… most of the southeastern trains board there. But yes, check the website to be sure.”

“Great. Thanks, Jean-Claude. Um, Miranda?” she asked tentatively. The toweled head turned toward Andy once again, looking only mildly annoyed. She was sure she had asked Miranda more questions already that afternoon than she had the entire time she had known her combined. “Can I have …”

“My purse is over there on the counter. Bring it to me.” Andy did, and Miranda immediately produced her own personal Platinum Visa card. “Here. No worry about the limit with this one,” she snarked.

“Thanks for clarifying that point, but I kind of figured. When I’m done do you want me to…”

“Wait for me out there,” Miranda interrupted. “Jean-Claude is almost finished.”

“Alright. I’m on it,” she nodded, and let herself back out into the front of the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to continue my progress on this story slowly, but surely. I've had quite a few non-fiction pieces on my writing plate lately, some that I've written for myself, trying to build a portfolio of sorts, and one that I'm writing for a contest that could give me a shot of getting something published. I just want you all to know that if it's been 2 or 3 weeks, I HAVE NOT abandoned this story by any means. I just have really bad writing ADD and I have A LOT of things I'm working on at the same time. You can keep up with some of that stuff on my tumblrs if you're interested, jj-lockd being my main one and i-am-francesca-johnson being my Meryl Streep one. Much love to all of you!!! This fandom always puts a smile on my face, and I LOVE being part of it :-D


	8. Barely Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we get a few hints about Miranda's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all... so it's been almost a month. But I finished the piece I was writing for a magazine contest as well as my review of "Ricki and the Flash," so I finally had some time to work on my story. Yay! I'm probably taking another week of non-fiction hiatus coming up, so you may get another chapter sooner that later, hopefully. Chapter 9 is definitely under way!
> 
> THANK YOU TO ALL OF MY KUDOS-ERS AND COMMENTERS! I still suck at not responding more. I WILL WORK ON THAT.

“She’s not afraid of you,” Jean-Claude remarked when Andy was barely out the door. He turned Miranda in the chair until she was facing herself in the mirror and removed the towel.

“Not anymore. At least… not in the same way as she was in the beginning.” Miranda tilted her head. “I think I liked it better when she was.”

“You always have loved making them quake in their stilettos, haven’t you?” he quipped as he worked to unwrap all of the foil from the previously white locks.

“Everyone needs a hobby,” she pronounced with a superior air.

“It’s fascinating though,” Jean-Claude began carefully, “that you seem to come far more alive when you spar with Andréa than I have seen you when doing almost anything else… aside from viewing an outstanding collection… in a number of years. And I have seen you _handle_ a great many important people… including your husbands… and terrorize even more… _lacquais des anonymes._ ”

As he spoke, Miranda’s eyes had narrowed until they were mere slits of indignation. But she wouldn’t take the bait that easily.

“Really.”

“Mmm. Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

“Non, Jean-Claude. Not a thing. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do. This exotic Koi fish is _not_ biting.”

“Alright darling, have it your own way.” He decided to let the matter drop. But when he caught her eye in the mirror, Jean-Claude gave Miranda a look that said, _I know what’s going on here, but I am graciously going to let it slide._

The glance Miranda returned said, _You’d better_ , and that was that. “I may not feel like telling, but there is something I would like to ask you.”

“I am all ears, all-ways, chérie.”

Miranda allowed the tiny smirk that came at Jean-Claude’s trademark invitation to gossip.

She cleared her throat and asked as casually as she could manage, “Do you have any pot?”

At that, Jean-Claude dropped his handful of foil on the ground. “Well… that is…”

Miranda sighed. “Is that a yes or a no, Jean-Claude?”

“I might.”

“Then that’s a _yes,_ isn’t it? I’m perfectly willing to pay you for it.”

At this point only hair was left in Miranda’s hair, and Jean-Claude combed his fingers through the now much darker strands to order the chaos left in the foil’s wake.

“Money is not the issue in this case, Mira. We both know that.” He paused, and their eyes met in the mirror again. “Why do you want it?”

“Oh, why does anyone want it?” she replied with irritation, moving to brush her newly styled bangs out of her face.

“Don’t answer my question with a question. It won’t work. If you want me to even consider it, you will tell me the truth.”

“You would rather have me buying it off of a stranger, laced with God-knows-what?” she taunted.

Though Jean-Claude would deny it in an instant, Miranda knew that when it came to her relationship with mind-altering substances, he worried over her excessively. Not that he didn’t have good reason, given Miranda’s track record; but that wouldn’t stop her from exploiting her best friend’s concern for her own benefit.

Bracing his hands on either side of her chair, Jean-Claude looked first at the floor and then back at the expectant reflection of his friend’s face.

“No. Of course I don’t want that,” he said with an air of seriousness. “But if something happens, it will be on the conscience of someone else and not on mine.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and acquiesced to his first question. “I just want… to unwind. To relax… _really_ relax. I want to take a little mental holiday. Or maybe a few of them. Can you blame me, under the circumstances?”

“No. However, you could just drink yourself into a stupor like other respectable people,” he quipped, reaching for the blow dryer.

“And then I’ll just end up making myself ill. I never did hold large quantities of liquor as admirably as you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“No, I haven’t. I seem to remember your shortcomings in that area ruining a very expensive pair of my Italian leather shoes sometime in the late 70’s.”

“You find yourself quite amusing, don’t you?”

“Of course. Je suis _charmant_ , tout le monde le dit.” He smirked. “And now I plan to bring some shape to your new color, so give me a minute while I work my magic with the rounded brush.”

Miranda sat in quiet thought while Jean-Claude used the blow dryer and said brush to sculpt her already mostly dry hair. It was jarring, to say the least, to look at herself in the mirror and not see her infamous, prematurely white coif reflecting back at her. In a way it felt like yet another part of her carefully constructed persona stripped away: another collapsed pillar of her sense of self. Rather than a third party knocking it down, however, she was choosing to sacrifice her iconic ‘do on her own terms. She _chose_ to spare herself the humiliation of constant recognition while she licked her wounds.

“ _Finis_ ,” Jean-Claude declared as he shut off the dryer and put it away. “Well… what do you think?” he asked her, handing her a mirror and turning her around in the chair so she could get the 360 degree view.

Miranda eyed her new hair color and slightly altered styling with a typically critical eye. Her head tilted right and then left; the lips threatened to purse, though they didn’t in the end.

“Acceptable,” she finally proclaimed with a terse nod. Jean-Claude nodded in return, knowing that “acceptable” was practically Miranda’s highest designation of praise. “And what about our previous topic of conversation, then? Have you made a decision?” she asked coolly.

“So you just want to… ‘relax,’ as you put it?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you think your young… _friend_ will think of that?”

“I think that if she doesn’t approve, she wouldn’t dare reproach me for it. But I have a strong hunch that she’s looking for escape from certain aspects of her life, as well. I daresay she would join me in partaking if I invited her.”

“Hm.” Jean-Claude’s expression remained closed, and Miranda failed to read what was running through his head.

Her desperation grew. “I just want to… kick back. For _once_. And without the headaches from wine or the adverse digestive consequences of hard liquor.” She laughed devoid of humor. “I don’t currently have any professional responsibilities… my children are on a different continent. I’m going to be on what amounts to a _vacation_ for the first time in ten years. _Please_ , Jean-Claude? Do this for me.”

A plea followed indelicately by a command. _C’est ma_ _fille_.

“All right, Mira. I will do this for you.” She smiled triumphantly and opened her mouth to remark, but he continued before she had a chance. “But you must _promise me_ that there will be nothing else. Nothing hard. No powder, no needles…”

“I _never_ put a needle in my arm or anywhere else.”

“I know that’s what you’ve always said.”

“And it’s the truth.”

“Obviously I wasn’t with you every second of every day, so I will have to take your word for it.”

“I guess you will.”

Removing the cape from Miranda’s shoulders, Jean-Claude said curtly, “I’ll have to run upstairs to the apartment and see what I can find. I’ll meet you out front.”

“Alright,” Miranda answered lightly, already feeling some of the world’s weight lifting from her shoulders. She checked her appearance one more time in the mirror. For years she had wondered what she would look like with red hair, and now she knew. Though a drastic change, she almost felt more shock at seeing the replacement of her forelock with more traditional bangs. Miranda didn’t think she’d worn actual bangs since childhood, but Jean-Claude clearly knew what he was doing; she still looked fierce.


	9. I See Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, will you look at that... I didn't fall off the face of the earth after all. Fall was hell. Recital season was hell. Life is still hell, but as Carrie Fisher says, sometimes you can only see heaven by backing away from the flames.
> 
> About 85% of this chapter was done in November. I'm hoping to get back to this more regularly, but I'm also working on some nonfiction stuff, too. 
> 
> Oh, and "Carol" has swallowed me whole. Go see it if you haven't yet.

 

While Jean-Claude put the finishing touches on Miranda’s still unseen new hairstyle, Andy worked quickly on Etienne’s computer to book Eurail passes for herself and her former boss. Just as Jean-Claude had thought, their train would depart from Gare de Lyon. There was a train leaving for Nice in just over an hour at 4:40pm that they could make if they hurried. On one hand Miranda was usually notoriously early everywhere she went, but she also often expected others to adhere to her personal timetable if something in her own daily itinerary deviated for some reason. In the Miranda-verse of _Runway_ and its affiliated organizations, everyone bowed to the whims of her overflowing schedule without question.  Andy had a feeling, however, that the French rail system would likely not be as accommodating if they were late. And if they didn’t make the 4:40 train, they would have to wait until 8:20pm.

 

Andy was considering knocking on the door to Jean-Claude’s studio to check on Miranda’s progress when the lady herself breezed right into the reception area with her air of “Queen of the Universe” fully intact. Although Andy’s reaction lacked subtlety when she felt her jaw practically hit the desk at the other woman’s new hair color, a deep burgundy. The reaction of Etienne, who was working on the neighboring computer, was ostentatious at best.

 

“Mon Dieu, Miranda… qu'est-il est arrivé à votre coiffure?!”

 

Miranda smirked. “Que penses-tu  est arrivé, mon cher? Jean-Claude a coupé et colorié mes cheveux, bien sûr.”

 

“Mais comme vous êtes, votre coiffure est emblématique!” he exclaimed, completely failing to hide his horror.

 

Miranda narrowed her eyes, and based on her body language it was obvious to Andy that she was down to the last layer of her ever-brittle patience. Andy didn’t speak French any better in that moment than she had all afternoon, but she knew enough words to gather that essentially Etienne was questioning the sagaciousness of Miranda’s decision. Which always went over so well.

 

“Etienne,” Miranda said slowly, and continued, “Je serai toujours emblématique, peu importe ce que je choisis de faire avec ma coiffure. Je suis _beaucoup_ plus que mes cheveux, _mon petit_.”

 

Etienne’s eyes grew wide, and it was clear that he realized he had overstepped a boundary. “Bien sûr, Miranda! Absolument, vous savez ce que vous faites!”

 

“Oui, j’imaginerais que je le sais,” Miranda returned in a sarcastic tone. With the hint of a sneer still present on her face, she turned her attention to Andy and switched back to her native language. “Train passes?” she asked curtly.

“Um, yeah,” Andy answered after a beat, still a little dumbstruck at the abrupt change in Miranda’s appearance.  “All booked. We have to get a move on if we’re going to make the next train, though… it leaves in about an hour.”

 

“Alright,” Miranda nodded. “And the clothes that I asked you to find? Do you have them at hand?”

 

“Yup. Right over here.” Finally emerging from her stupor, Andy indicated their pile of luggage over by some plush chairs in the waiting area and made her way over to them. She quickly located a nondescript black carry-on bag of her own and handed it to Miranda. “It’s all in there, plus a few things you didn’t ask for. I put all your makeup in there too, plus your toothbrush and an extra change of clothes. They probably aren’t as bad as the airlines, but I’m sure luggage gets lost on trains, too.”

 

Miranda permitted a tiny smile. She adored fastidious attention to detail, especially when it was employed by people who were seeing to her own needs.

 

“Thank you,” she said succinctly, though sincerely and walked back toward Jean-Claude’s studio. “I’m going back in here to change. When Jean-Claude comes back, ask him to wait for me.”

 

Almost immediately Etienne walked over by the chairs and said to Andy in a loud conspiratorial whisper, “I cannot believe that she changed her hair! After all of these years…”

 

“Me neither,” Andy laughed, shedding some of the tension she’d held inside since Miranda’s passive-aggressive reveal. “I think you barely escaped with your life back there, though.”

 

“Escaped?” he asked, endearingly confused by the colloquial expression.

 

Andy giggled even harder, but worked to hush herself. All they needed was for Miranda to poke an angry head of newly dark auburn tresses out of Jean-Claude’s door and throttle the both of them for holding court on the subject.

 

“Oh, how to explain it… English is so weird sometimes.” Andy thought for a moment.

 

“Basically, if you had been anyone else I’m pretty sure she would have killed you on the spot. People say she likes me, but she _adores_ you.”

 

“Oh my goodness no, Andréa,” Etienne responded, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. “I have never met them in person of course, but I am very sure that if Miranda adores any people on this earth, it is her daughters _only_.”

 

“She does, absolutely. But I’m serious Etienne, if you were any _Runway_ employee at all, probably including me, you would not still be standing here after the way you talked about her hair. You would either be crying in a ball on the floor or dead,” Andy observed pointedly. Then Etienne began to snicker, and Andy joined him. By the time Jean-Claude returned a minute later, he found the pair of them giggling like schoolchildren on the chairs in the sitting area.

 

“What in the world has got into the two of you?” he asked, baffled. Neither of them noticed that he was carrying a small black Chanel cosmetic bag in his hands.

 

Andy tried to get herself together, and through a few persistent chortles she answered,

“Etienne was a little… shall we say, _surprised_ about the changes in Miranda’s hair. He didn’t put on a very good poker face, and he was very… _honest_ in his comments.”

 

Jean-Claude looked instantly horrified. “Nom de Dieu, Etienne… tu as de la chance qu’elle ne te tue pas!”

 

“ ‘Tue’… like ‘tuer’? To kill?” Andy asked with wide eyes. “Did you say that he’s lucky she didn’t kill him?”

 

“Yes I did, but…” Before he could finish his sentence, however, both Andy and Etienne dissolved into another round of indelicate cackles. “ _Now_ what is so funny?”

 

“I said pretty much the exact same thing,” Andy chucked. “Just in English.”

 

Jean-Claude sighed wearily, the whirlwind nature of the day taking its toll. “In any event, you should both get your amusement out of your systems before Miranda comes back. Where has she gone?”

 

“She’s in your studio changing. I think she knows that her usual clothes could draw unwanted attention while we’re traveling,” she responded.

 

“Indeed. I hope this works… I hope that no one recognizes her,” remarked Jean-Claude. “She doesn’t deserve to live out one of the worst blows she’s been dealt in her career under the microscope of the press. Animals, all of them.”

 

“Well, there are _some_ respectable journalists, you know,” Andy bristled. “Eventually, that’s what I would like to do. Work in print journalism.”

 

“As in a magazine or a widely-circulated newspaper, I presume?” he asked, and the woman nodded affirmatively. “I see. I had a feeling that your long-term goals did not likely include fetching coffee and God knows what else for Miranda.”

 

“No, but in a lot of ways I feel like I’ve learned more about the industry in six months under Miranda than I did in four and a half years of college.” As soon as they left her lips, Andy nearly winced at her choice of words. _Under Miranda. What the hell._ But neither Jean-Claude nor Etienne found her comment strange; in fact both of them smiled at the observation.

 

“Well chérie, I did not mean any slight to your career aspirations in what I said before about the press. I meant the paparazzi and those dreadful tabloids.”

 

“They really are dreadful,” Andy agreed. _Bastards._ She cast a sidelong glance at the studio door, making sure it was still securely closed. Lowering her voice, she continued, “I think she’s really worried about what Page Six is going to say about… this whole mess.” She almost mentioned the divorce, but she wasn’t sure if Miranda had divulged that bit of information to Jean-Claude; she almost certainly hadn’t told Etienne. Well. The whole world would know the entire story soon enough.

 

“Oh, Page Six will have plenty to say. But Miranda is, as they say, a big girl. She has lived through her share of publicity nightmares. It will help her, I think, to stay out of the limelight for a week or two, however.”

 

“Agreed,” Andy nodded.

 

The trio didn’t finish their discussion a moment too soon, because almost immediately the studio door opened once again and Miranda moved to join them in the waiting area. Andy felt her eyes bug out at the vision before her, one which had been previously unseen by her eyes. Miranda in jeans. Skinny jeans. Andy’s _own_ skinny jeans, to be specific, tucked inside up to the minute black Prada boots and accented perfectly by the just-rightly oversized black Casmir sweater. Particularly with her now red hair, Miranda looked like the very picture of autumn, come-to-life and walking right off of _Runway_ ’s pages. Before Andy could curtail her own expression, Miranda noticed it and the corners of her mouth curled upward slightly.

 

“Andréa,” she purred, her voice laden with mischief. _Uh-oh_. No matter the context, when Miranda’s voice slipped into that tone, someone was in trouble. But Andy was beginning to think she was entering dangerously uncharted territory where Miranda and trouble intersected. “I’m sure you believe that your own manners are superior to Etienne’s. When really, the only difference is that he voices his social faux-pas out loud, and you wear yours on your face.”

 

“I…” Andy fumbled, searched for words, and when they wouldn’t come she closed her mouth. Miranda looked more amused by the second, and the bemused expressions of both Jean-Claude and Etienne were no help whatsoever. Finally, Andy found her voice. Sort of. “I didn’t mean to be rude, Miranda. It’s just that you’re…”

 

“ _Yes_ ?” she drawled, the word dripping with charming venom. “It’s just that I’m _what_ , exactly?” Now Miranda’s smile spread all the way to her eyes. The gleam bordered on predatory; it was clear that she was thriving on watching Andy squirm.

 

At last, Andy managed to school her features. It was true she’d had plenty of practice doing that in the time she’d worked for Miranda, but the day’s events had thrust her so far outside of her neatly crafted comfort zone that Andy desperately needed a chance to recalibrate. She hoped that she would have an opportunity on the lengthy train ride.

 

“You’re… well… you’re wearing… _jeans_ ,” she finally answered dumbly. Now it was Jean-Claude’s turn to burst out laughing. Miranda shot him a look, but it didn’t deter him one bit. Unable to resist, Etienne joined in with the contagious twittering and Miranda almost looked like it was hurting her feelings. _Almost_.

 

“Although I’m sure the concept is nearly incomprehensible,” Miranda drawled, “I’ve been known to don denim occasionally in my day. It is true I haven’t deigned to much since the oversaturation of denim in the market at large in the mid 90’s.”

 

Andy snorted at that, and the guys just continued to laugh. Miranda still looked annoyed, but Andy could have sworn she saw the hint of a smirk play at Miranda’s lips.

 

“Well Andréa, are we going to stand around here all day snickering at each other, or are we going to catch the train that you emphasized was departing so soon?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Of course, Miranda,” Andy answered, serious once again. “I’m ready to leave whenever you are. We have everything right here.”

 

“Alright then.” Miranda sighed and turned to Jean-Claude. The two regarded each other meaningfully, and as Miranda stepped a bit closer to him she said, “Bien, mon meilleur ami… je ne pourrais jamais assez te remercier pour tout que tu as fait.” At that point, she noticed the small cosmetic bag. “Pour moi?” she asked.

 

“Oui… voilà.” Jean-Claude handed it to her and she took it with a grateful smile.

 

“Maintenant, viens ici,” he said, and without further pretense Jean-Claude gathered Miranda in an honest to goodness hug. To say that Andy was surprised was an understatement, but Etienne looked just as shocked at the gesture.

 

What neither could have anticipated was the fierce manner in which Miranda returned the hug. It looked almost… clingy, and clinginess was a very un-Miranda-like behavior.

No one heard it but her, but before they finally parted Jean-Claude whispered in her ear,

 

“Tu seras bien, Mira. Tu es toujours.”

 

Miranda didn’t respond audibly, but she did give him a small, tight smile and a nod. “Right, then. Come along, Andréa… you need to hail us a taxi,” she said over her shoulder as grabbed her own suitcase and walked to the door.

 

 _Well, at least she took her own bag_ , Andy thought to herself. _Or one of them, anyway._ “Jean-Claude, Etienne… I can’t thank you two enough for all your help. Merci,” she added, holding out a hand politely.

 

“Enough with the shaking of hands, chérie. We hug in this country,” Jean-Claude chided, gathering Andy into a reassuring, if shorter embrace than Miranda had received and placed the standard kisses on each of her cheeks. Etienne followed suit, and suddenly Andy felt like she was saying goodbye to dear old friends that she had known for years.

 

“You must not be _un étranger,_ Andréa… you will come and see us again, yes?”

 

“I hope so, Etienne.”

 

“Bon voyage, darling… give me a ring on the telephone if you need anything at all,” Jean-Claude added with a serious note to his voice.

 

“I appreciate that a lot, thanks. Au revoir!” Andy called over her shoulder while she struggled to get the remainder of their luggage out to the sidewalk.

 

“ _Finally_ Andréa, there you are… _I_ have taken it upon myself to hail this cab,” she said haughtily, indicating the stopped vehicle and the driver who was already putting Miranda’s bags into the trunk.

 

“Sorry, Miranda,” Andy mumbled. Her former boss didn’t respond verbally; she simply turned her nose up slightly and climbed into the waiting open door of the taxi. After personally supervising that the driver got all of their bags into the trunk, Andy walked around to the street side of the car and got in.

 

Though the car hadn’t yet budged, Miranda was already staring out the window. Her face held what Andy supposed amounted to a thoughtful sulk, and Miranda’s eyes already looked like they were on the other side of the country.

 

“Gare de Lyon, ne-çe pas?” confirmed the driver.

 

Miranda had clearly told him already. “Oui.”

 

“Bien,” he responded and pulled into the traffic.

 

Andy peaked over at Miranda once more, and she thought that she might have seen the reflection of a tear rolling down the cheek that was facing the window. Miranda was running away from the world, but for some inexplicable reason she wanted Andy along for the ride. This trip was going to be hell, but some part of Andy was welcoming the masochistic scorch of flames. She felt chosen, though for what she didn’t know. Nigel’s parting words echoed in her head as the taxi flew across Paris: _Never doubt that you’re special._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm jj-lockd and i-am-francesca-johnson on tumblr. The 2nd one is my Meryl Streep blog, which is where I post all of my Miranda stuff. I usually share story updates on both, though. I love all of you guys to the moon and back!


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